


An Heir, Apparently

by FlytsOfAngels



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut (I was distracting myself from a novel I was finishing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlytsOfAngels/pseuds/FlytsOfAngels
Summary: Queen Anora has always been a determined young woman, even before she became the Queen of Ferelden ... twice.  But the failure of both of her husbands, King Cailan Theirin and King Alistair Theirin, to beget a child with her has made her even more determined to ensure a peaceful and undisputed succession to the throne.  Especially when she meets a templar who looks remarkably like the current king and her husband ...Cullen Rutherford has negotiated with his friends in the Templar Order to be reassigned after the disaster that was Kirkwall.  Being a Ferelden Templar, he has traveled to Denerim to have his new -- hopefully peaceful -- post approved by the Revered Mother.  Until a shadowy woman from his past asks him to join her in protecting the negotiations that the Divine has planned in Haven ... and he just happens to meet the Queen in the Chantry.Comments always welcome ...





	1. The Problem with Husbands and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora remembers and plans. Because there is nothing more important to the future of Ferelden than a peaceful succession.

Anora paced the floor of her chambers, her fingers interweaving with each other and unwinding with the same flowing pulse that her stomach was experiencing. She tried to draw in deep breaths, but her anxiety kept her from actually being able to do more than inhale and exhale in time with her footsteps. Reaching the far wall of her room, she turned and started in the other direction, her slippers whispering quietly, reminding her of the soft, hissing voices that she had heard in the grand hall of the castle today.

Childless. Infertile. Barren.

But the one that had hurt the most: doomed.

She almost cursed then, recalling the courtier who had whispered that little comment to the arlessa standing beside him. If she were a different person, she would have walked up behind that ignoramus and slipped a knife blade between his ribs. If she weren’t the queen of Ferelden, she might have slapped him, there and then, in front of every noble and commoner gathered in the room.

But there were things that queens did, and things that they didn’t. Maker forbid that she should ever forget that lesson.  


Or any of the other hundreds that were drilled into her head over the years when she had been betrothed to Cailan. A young lady — a queen — doesn’t run through the mud with her betrothed. A young lady doesn’t shout her orders at anyone, even if they aren’t in earshot. A young lady doesn’t appear too intelligent in front of the men who must carry out her orders. A young lady doesn’t …

Maker, she thought to herself, a young lady doesn’t appreciate being kept waiting by her own husband!

It occurred to her that maybe the courtier had been right: maybe Ferelden was doomed. After all, her husband patently preferred the company of whichever soldiers and merchants he could find in the taverns in the city to her bed. He hadn’t been raised to court, and in some way, he seemed to find comfort in the easy connections he was able to maintain with the common people of the capital. While she could command the attention of a host of courtiers with a simple lift of her finger, he could sit for hours swapping stories with pikemen and carters and armor smiths … any number of people that she would pass by in the streets without a second glance. He was so much more their king than he was the man who controlled all of the landed families of Ferelden who had sworn their loyalty to him.

And to her. As their queen. The wife of King Alistair.

Cailan, well, he was a memory, a ghost who would visit every now and then to remind her of what it had been to be young and carefree. That had ended when they had married, and Anora had been the one who had taken up the responsibilities of actually ruling the kingdom while Cailan … Cailan played at being a soldier, inspiring his men through his example. It had worked for the most part: they had followed him to Ostagar to confront the threat of the darkspawn. And they had been slaughtered.

Of course, she lived with the knowledge that her own father had been responsible — at least in part — for that defeat and the death of her husband and king. By withdrawing his troops at the critical moment in the battle, Loghain Mac Tir had doomed every man and woman on that battlefield. Darkspawn take few prisoners. And if they do take you, you would prefer that they had killed you.

Then Alistair had appeared as if dropped from the skies by the Maker himself, with his little entourage of misfits, including that young woman who had never been able to take her gaze off him. At least that woman had had an intelligent mind behind those glittering green eyes. She had seen the reason in having Alistair tied directly to his half-brother through marriage to his widow. She had been able to understand that the stability of succession was the underpinning of Ferelden’s future as an independent nation of Thedas.

And, best of all, she had gotten herself killed when she destroyed the Archdemon.

So that woman was remembered as the Hero of Ferelden, sung by bards and celebrated by the people of Denerim even when the city had been burning around them all in those first moments after the Archdemon’s death. Her name was shouted by commoners and nobility alike.

And whispered by Alistair in the darkness of the bed he now shared with Anora.

It was hard to live with ghosts around you, and Anora would readily admit that fact. When she recalled her life with Cailan, it was always the most ridiculous little things that came to mind: the way his hair had hung in his eyes after she had pushed him into the stream that ran through an arling that they were visiting with their fathers. The treats that he would cram into his pockets when he escaped from the castle to meet her at the seaside docks in Denerim — treats that he would share with her even if they were completely smashed to bits.

His tender concern when they had been bedded for the first time as husband and wife.

Even now, all these years later, she could feel a blush rising into her cheeks when she thought about how little either of them had known about the other — physically, at least. Of course, having practically grown up in each other’s pockets, she had seen him in a variety of states of undress over the years. But that had ended some time when the Chantry sisters had taken over her lessons — those horrible lessons in propriety and fulfilling the will of the Maker as a queen. Including the vague admonitions to please her husband so that the deity would bless them with an entire brood of children.

So when they had finally been brought together after their wedding — with all the appropriate Chantry and political officials milling around in their bedroom — discovering the man that Cailan had grown into had been a … well, it had been a shock. She hadn’t known that a tunic could cover muscles that rippled just like that when you ran your fingertips across them. And although she had had a basic memory of skinny dipping with Cailan, when she had seen the eager, hardened length of his manhood …

There simply hadn’t been anything in the lessons that the Chantry sisters had given her that covered that.

But she had acquiesced like a good wife. She had prayed that the Maker — and her husband — would be happy with her, and she had endured the grunting and rutting of Cailan on top of her. Throughout, he had whispered apologies to her, his fingertips resting on her cheeks while he looked into her eyes, and she could swear that she had seen a shimmer of tears in his golden lashes when she gazed back up at him. When he and the officials had finally been satisfied, he had ordered them away and then had drawn her into his arms again, pillowing her head on his broad shoulder.

“I’m so sorry about that, Nori,” he had whispered. “I knew that they had to stay, but I couldn’t … I didn’t …”

She had nodded against his shoulder. “You did what was required of you, Cailan. That’s all that matters.”

“You think so?” he had asked, one of his hands suddenly running down the curve of her body and coming to rest on the swell of her buttock. “What about you, my dear wife? Have I fulfilled your requirements for me?”

She had looked at him with surprise and confusion, trying to understand what he could mean. He had bedded her before the noble houses, the Chantry … probably before the blessed Maker himself. They were now in every way husband and wife, king and queen. Had there been something else that she should have expected?

He had laughed and pushed her back into the downy softness of the pillows behind her head. Without further comment, he had proceeded to demonstrate that, yes, there were other expectations that she could have for him. He had trailed kisses across her face until his lips had settled on her own and his tongue had dashed out to beg entrance into the soft warmth of her mouth. His fingers had seemed to be everywhere at once, beginning with caresses that were as light as the breezes that blew in from the sea but that became more demanding as some kind of fire began raging inside of her. 

She had moaned and twisted under him — behaving in the most unladylike manner possible — opening her mouth at his invitation and kissing him back, pressing her hips eagerly against his, and, in the most daring moment of all, reaching down to wrap her fingers around his manhood. When he had gasped in pleasure, she had felt a completely different kind of thrill, one that was matched only by having her commands instantly obeyed by her servants, and she had reached out with her other hand to see whether she could find a method that would repeat the sensation. Cailan had groaned and moved above her, his mouth moving across her chest and circling the curve of one breast.

“You have to stop, Nori,” he had whispered while his tongue created swirling patterns on her flesh. “Let me go, or I’ll spend in your hands.”

“But if you enjoy it …” she had argued, not wanting this sense of command to be taken from her.

He had chuckled and dragged his tongue across the crest of the breast that he was paying attention to, and then he exhaled slowly on it. The change in temperature had caused her nipple to tighten and for tremors of pleasure to race down from her chest to join the fire that was raging between her thighs. She had gasped and pressed upward from the bed, silently begging him for more.

“But you enjoy it, too,” he had teased, his tongue gliding across her skin again, his breath causing her flesh to tighten just a bit more. “And I would like to have the memory that you enjoyed our marriage bed, some day, when I’m old and doddering.”  


“Doddering?” she had giggled, her hands sliding from between their bodies and slipping around his shoulders. “What will that make me?”  


“The most beautiful wife of a doddering king that Ferelden has ever seen.”

She had tried to reply, but he had chosen that moment to wrap his lips around the nipple that he had tightened, suckling at it with gentle draws of his mouth. By themselves, her hands had flown to the back of his head, and she had clutched him against her, never wanting this thrilling sensation to end. As she had writhed beneath him, he had gently scraped his teeth across the rose-colored crest, and she had nearly screamed with pleasure.

He had touched and teased her for what — in her memory — seemed like hours, until finally, he had taken that position above her again and pressed himself into the pulsing center of her desire. This time, she had been beyond all possibility of thought, moving beneath him by pure instinct, and somehow, he managed to find her rhythm and use it to his advantage. She had risen with him, striving against his body to find what lay … just there … beyond sight and reach. And when she finally found it, she called out his name to the candlelight, not caring which servants in the next rooms or guard in the hallway heard her fulfillment.

Cailan had let her still, not moving away from her until she was able to open her eyes and smile shyly at him. “Are you satisfied, wife?” he had asked her, pressing a kiss against the tip of her nose.

“I believe so, your majesty,” she had replied. “Could you doubt it?”

He had smiled softly. “Perhaps. But I did wish to be certain. If you don’t mind …”

He had started moving, and Anora had been surprised to feel her body respond immediately. Pressing against him again and again, she had quickly tumbled across that invisible apex once more, feeling him stiffen above her and groan in satisfaction just moments after she did.

When he had fallen back to the bed beside her, he had pulled the heavy blankets up to his waist and tugged her onto his shoulder again. Anora had let her eyes drift closed, listening to the heartbeat that thundered beneath her cheek until it slowed and intertwined with the tempo of her husband’s breathing. Eventually, she had fallen asleep.

It hadn’t been like that with Cailan every time, of course, and it certainly wasn’t that way with Alistair either. Her current husband had bedded her with an even more powerful sense of duty hanging over them, because her first had failed to beget a child on her. Ferelden had gained no future monarch from her union to Cailan, no guaranteed successor to take the throne — even at an early age — if the king should die.

Unfortunately, Alistair wasn’t doing any better.

Especially when he was out carousing with his soldiers until all hours of the morning.

Anora was looking around the room for something to take her frustrations out on when the latch of her door clicked. Moving quickly, she managed to seat herself in a chair beside the bed and pick up her needlepoint — which she almost hated more than the idle chatter of her ladies in waiting — in time to see Alistair peek around the edge of the wood. He blinked slowly at her, his eyes struggling to compensate for the light from the work candle that was on the table beside her. Glancing up at him, she smiled softly — and falsely — and dropped her hands into her lap.

“Anora, my dear!” Alistair mumbled, jerking himself upright and rolling into the room. “Just the woman I have been looking for!”

“Indeed, your majesty?” she asked while she watched him cross to the bed and take a seat in front of her. “Perhaps you should have started your search in my chambers.”

He nodded with all the certainty of a drunken sage. “Wise, wise,” he said, reaching down as if to remove one of his boots, but almost immediately pulling himself back upright so that he wouldn’t fall from the bed. “You’re truly my wisest counselor, Anora Mac Tir Theirin. Or should that be Anora Mac Tir Theirin Theirin?”

“I find that one Theirin at a time is more than enough for me, your majesty.”

He laughed sharply at her comment. “Me, too! Didn’t have to be a Theirin until there weren’t any more of them. Liked it better that way.” His body sagged dangerously, and Anora went to kneel at his feet, drawing his boots from them and pressing her fingers into the places where she knew they ached. Alistair groaned above her and brought one hand to rest on the top of her head. “You’re an angel, Anora. Or a goddess. Like Andraste, you care for all the people.”

Anora would have reminded Alistair that Andraste chose the elven races over humans and led those people in open rebellion against their king, but she was a good little Andrastian, wasn’t she? Because a proper young lady is always a good Andrastian. Therefore, she kept her heresies to herself and continued to knead at his feet.

“You did send for me, though, didn’t you?” Alistair asked, leaning his face close to hers and working steadily to focus on her features.

“Yes, your majesty,” she replied. “And I am grateful that you responded so promptly.”

Of course, her message had been delivered hours ago — before he should have had an opportunity to slip his personal bodyguard and make his way into the taverns of Denerim. But he was here now, and she needed to share her idea with him. Immediately.

Before the sensation of doom grew any more powerful inside of her.

“So …?” he asked, his face nearing hers, his balance becoming even more precarious by the second.

“I had wondered whether you heard the courtiers talking in the great hall this morning, your majesty,” she began, her fingers continuing their steady rhythm.

“Hmmm … I suppose I did? I mean, do they ever really stop?”

She laughed, this time only slightly falsely, and met his eyes. “No, I don’t think that they do. Either they want something from you …”

“Us,” he corrected immediately. “You’re the heart and head of Ferelden, after all, Anora.”

Nodding, she continued, “Something from us, or they are spreading the most malicious gossip that they can find.”

“So is it the something or the gossip that you’re worried about this time?”

“The gossip,” she replied softly. “Specifically gossip about me.”

Alistair snorted and took her chin in his long fingers. Tilting her face to his, he studied her for a timeless moment and then said, “Nothing here to gossip about. Unless they’re jealous of the most beautiful queen in all of Thedas.”

“The most beautiful, childless queen in all of Thedas, you mean.”

Frowning darkly, he shook his head, and Anora had to worry that he might tip over to the side now. Sighing, she took his face between her hands and looked at him.

“We still have no heir, Alistair. It’s been years since you were crowned, and the political situation has grown even more desperate, especially after everything that happened in Kirkwall. It may be time to … to find another option for our future.”

His frown deepened. “You mean … our cousins? I don’t have any that seem likely, except for Teagan, and he’s become something of a prat since Eamon ceded the arldom to him.”

“I hadn’t meant cousins, Alistair. I had thought that we could do something more proactive about getting us an heir. Or getting me with child.”

This time, the frown was definitely a pout, and Anora reached up to smooth the lines away from his face. “You’re unhappy with me,” he said morosely, wiping one hand across his face.

“No, Alistair, no,” she said truthfully. In all honesty, Alistair was everything that she could have hoped for in a lover and in a ruler. Where he was determined and passionate in bed, he was equally indifferent and willing to allow her to decide in their counsel chambers. Everything that she could have wanted when she had made her bargain for the future of Ferelden. “I’m completely satisfied with you and every effort that you make to keep me fulfilled. And to try to get me with child.”

“But?” he asked. “I know there’s a ‘but’ there somewhere.”

“But we’re not succeeding. And everyone knows it.”

Alistair looked around him and blinked slowly. “Well, we’re certainly in the right place to make another attempt, wife.” He leered at her and slowly oozed onto one side in the bed. Almost immediately, he started snoring.

Sighing, Anora rose to her feet and lifted Alistair’s legs so that he was stretched out on the down-filled mattress. Tugging one of the blankets loose, she draped it over him, standing beside him to listen to his gentle snoring. Moving to the basin on the other side of the room, she cleaned her teeth and took her hair from its formal arrangement, braiding it into a more serviceable plait that wouldn’t get in her way while she was sleeping. Slipping from her robe, she slid into bed beside her snoring husband and blew out the candle.

There would be time, she told herself. She might be able to tell him about her plan another night, when she was able to get his attention before he went out into the city and drank so eagerly with so many men so far below his station in life.

Or she could just keep the idea to herself. After all, if it worked, it would probably be wiser if he didn’t know about it.

But she had a plan. All she had to do was to fill in the missing pieces.


	2. The Problem with Mothers and Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reassignment can be healing, but being reassigned is incredibly boring. But your thoughts are always your own ...
> 
> Cameo appearance by Leliana

Cullen Rutherford hated this part of his duties. The drilling and the standing and the guarding — all those things he could handle quite easily. But the formalities of reassignment. Maker protect him from such banalities.

But he stood quietly, precisely where he had been ordered to stand, waiting patiently for the Revered Mother of the Chantry in Denerim to finally acknowledge him. And, Maker bless her, she was taking her own sweet time in fulfilling this insignificant, momentary duty. Just a blink of her eyes, and he could be off to his next assignment. As easily as that. Honestly, it shouldn’t take this long.

He shifted on his feet, simply to keep the blood flowing through his legs, and let his eyes move over to the other templar standing just to one side and slightly in front of him. His sponsor, the knight-commander whom he had tasked with making this request for him, had agreed to try to give him some hope of leaving everything that had happened in Kirkwall behind him. The man had been eager to support his transfer, having known Cullen when he was still a trainee, before he had risen quickly in the ranks despite being considered almost too old to have come to the Chantry’s service. Perhaps he had been wrong to ask this man to support his request. Maybe he should have taken his time and discovered which of his former commanders actually had the ear of the Revered Mother or anyone else who could have made this decision in a snap of his or her fingers.

Cullen chafed at the inactivity, longing to be anywhere were he could actually feel that he was fulfilling his duty. Because duty was his life. Since he had been a boy, he had longed to be able to protect people, any kind of people, from the things that threatened them. Especially if it was a threat that came at the defenseless from the actions of those who could control magic.

Magic was dangerous. He had learned that long ago in his village of Honnleath, where their local “magic investigator” had been beaten to death by his own golem. Day after day, he had stared at that motionless stone being and sworn that he wouldn’t let it happen again, that some day, he would be the one who would step between the innocent and the uncontrolled forces of magic and save the day.

That had been years ago, and he had seen too much to believe that he actually could ever be that person now. Today, he simply wished that he could find a backwater outpost somewhere, wean himself from his need for lyrium, and live out the rest of his life, questioning kooks who wandered out of the woods claiming that they had been turned into rodents and being just threatening enough to keep the apostates away.

It was a simple dream. Maybe it could come true today.

Unfortunately, this delay made him doubt it more and more.

He let his eyes wander around the Chantry, a building like so many others that he had been in during his life, except for the newness of it. Like many of the other structures that faced into Denerim’s marketplace, the Chantry had been partially destroyed when the Archdemon had led his armies here to attack the seat of power in Ferelden, and many of the facings and tapestries showed their newness. The faithful had obviously been pressed into donating generously to the restoration of this center of worship, and the Chantry had made the best of their contributions. Cullen studied the decorations with a kind of disinterested scorn: what good was gilding and festooned fabric when there were so many who needed food, clothing, or a safe place to rest their heads? Still, it had never been his place to judge the actions of the priests of the Chantry: only those of his wards, the mages.

Cullen felt the keening of his failure to those he had been meant to protect — two failures, not just one. One — the collapse of the Tower of Magi in the center of Lake Calenhad — was enough to get him shipped to what had seemed like a safe, quiet posting when he had first been reassigned. Kirkwall’s mages had been under the thumb of the Knight-Commander, Meredith Stannard, when he had arrived, and everything had seemed to be going just the way that it should. Certainly there had been little rebellions and apostates to recover from the wilds, but nothing had prepared him for the insanity of his own commander and the explosion that had destroyed the Chantry. And he had failed to stop any of those things from happening.

Of course, for some reason, they called him a hero. He had survived the collapse of the Tower by being trapped by a mage in a bubble of power; he had survived the insanity of Knight-Commander Meredith by taking the side of the Champion of Kirkwall. Neither choice seemed to him to have been particularly heroic or even designed to help him fulfill his duty. He saw only the failure in his actions.

He caught a quick motion from his friend and turned his head slightly to see the Revered Mother walking out of her office and down the long aisle of the Chantry. At her side, a tall, slender woman with hair the color of moonlit gold was walking with a stately elegance that made it hard for him to look away. She spoke to the Revered Mother in a soft voice whose music he could only partially hear, and her hands made small, graceful gestures that made him want to feel those long fingers wrapped around completely inappropriate portions of his anatomy. He swallowed hard and tried to pull his eyes away, only to magnetically return to the soft curves of her face.

He missed the moment when his sponsor dropped to one knee in front of the Revered Mother and her companion, but he quickly followed suit, bowing his head just enough to be polite, not wanting to take his eyes from those slender fingers. Churning furiously, his mind tried to understand why his fellow templar had dropped to his knee, but his question was forgotten when that soft voice — the one that had whispered to him from a distance — spoke to them both.

“You may rise,” the woman said, her intelligent, blue eyes meeting his when he stood straight in front of her. It seemed to him that she studied him in detail, taking in every aspect of his physical body in that studious gaze, and then a whimsical smile slowly spread across her full, pink lips.

“I see that you have duties, Revered Mother,” she said, one hand moving to include his sponsor in her words. “I would leave you to your responsibilities …”

“No, your majesty,” the Revered Mother replied. “Merely a reassignment. Although you might appreciate hearing the report from this templar. He was in Kirkwall when the incident took place.”

Culled winced inwardly. They spoke so casually about an event that had nearly destroyed his faith, battering everything that he had been raised believing and almost shattering his trust in his fellow templars and what they worked to achieve. They hadn’t been there, and there was no way that he could convey to them the terror of every moment that had followed the concussive explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall.

And they were fools to believe that there was anything that they could do to prevent more of the same or change what would happen to the world.

“Commander Cullen, you have been away from Ferelden for many years, but I would think that you remember our queen,” the Revered Mother was saying, and he snapped his focus back to her words.

But … the queen. Maker take him! The thoughts he had been having about her fingers!

“Your majesty,” he managed to choke out from around the tightness that suddenly gripped his throat. He bowed deeply, appropriately, and took the hand that she extended to him. And then he stood there, dumbstruck. What was he supposed to do with the hand of a queen? Shake it? Kiss it?

Force it down into his pants and make it take hold of him, just as he had been imagining?

Queen Anora was looking at him with a kind of gentle understanding in her eyes, and she briefly squeezed his fingers and let them fall from her grip. “I am certain that the king and I would appreciate your insights as to events that unfolded in Kirkwall, Commander Cullen. Would you consider delivering your report to us in the castle? Perhaps before you depart for your new assignment?”

He bowed again, less deeply this time. “It would be my honor, your majesty,” he replied, his eyes meeting the brilliant blue of her gaze. For some reason, he could feel himself smiling in response to the gentle tilt of her lips, and a lightness filled his chest for the first time in years.

The queen turned to the Revered Mother and walked with her to the main doors of the Chantry. Cullen watched the two women say their farewells, cheek pressing to cheek, the queen dipping into a little curtsey of respect for the leader of the Chantry in the city and then turning to walk slowing into the sunlight of Denerim. Before she had taken more than two steps in the marketplace, palace guards closed in around her, shutting off his view of her slowly receding form and the delicious curving of her hips against the fabric of her dress.

Cullen shook his head and dragged his eyes away from Queen Anora’s bottom, silently chastising himself for the thoughts that wouldn’t leave his mind. Andraste’s flaming sword, he was too old to be thinking about any woman in that way: his were the thoughts of a randy teen who had just discovered that there was a world outside the farmstead that had been his home for years. And they certainly weren’t appropriate for a templar to be thinking about a woman, or for a citizen of Ferelden to be thinking about his queen. Inhaling deeply, he reminded himself that he would only be in the city for a few more days and then he would be free of this temptation and alone with his memories and imaginings.

They would have to suffice, as they always had.

Turning again to face his mentor, Cullen saw the templar studying his face, and he stilled his thoughts. “I imagine that you had never met the queen before, then, Cullen,” his friend murmured. “Am I right?”

Shaking his head, he watched as the Revered Mother was intercepted — yet again — by a small shape in a hooded coat and trousers. He would have thought that, from the pants, the person was a man, yet there was something about the shape that told him that he was wrong. But still, he was being delayed. Again.

“Maker’s breath,” he cursed softly. “Will this day never end?”

His friend chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Perhaps it’s a sign, Cullen. You’re meant to stay in Denerim for the duration. It certainly would give you plenty of opportunities to … admire … our queen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled in response. “I’m sworn in service to the Chantry. There’s nothing else for me.”

“You can think that, right up until that moment when something else smacks you in the face, Cullen.”

“It certainly isn’t going to be a female who smacks my face,” he replied, crossing his arms on his chest and looking back to where the Revered Mother was arguing with the small woman in the hooded coat. When the older woman suddenly looked down the length of the Chantry at him, he felt a shiver run up his spine, especially when the woman at her side also turned to study him. A strand of her red-gold hair fell across her eyes, but she left it where it was, her gaze traveling over him from head to toe. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something from his past. Something that he had probably chosen to forget.

At last, the two women approached him and his sponsor, the hooded woman allowing the Revered Mother to lead them until they were within arm’s reach of each other. He bowed his head as a sign of respect for the leader of the Chantry and waited.

“I understand that you have requested reassignment, Commander Cullen,” the Revered Mother began, her hands folded together in front of her, almost as if every word that passed her lips was some kind of prayer to the Maker. “The Knight-Commander recommends that you be allowed to move to a new post, and we believe that, through reassignment, you may find some modicum of peace.”

Cullen bowed his head briefly. “That is my hope, Mother,” he replied. “But my life is dedicated to the service of the Chantry. You may assign me as you will.”

“I appreciate your willingness to go where the Maker sends you, my son,” the Revered Mother replied, stepping to one side so that he had a clearer view of the woman in the hooded coat. “Knight-Commander, you are dismissed.”

“As you wish, Revered Mother.” His sponsor bowed and started toward the door. When he was out of the line of sight of the Chantry’s leader, he winked and made a motion as if he were tipping a mug of something cold and frothy down his throat. Cullen nodded shortly and returned his attention to the two women in front of him.

“Walk with me, commander,” the Revered Mother said and started toward her office in the back of the Chantry. Cullen fell into place at her side, waiting as patiently as he could for the woman to start speaking, but she remained silent until she was in her office again. Taking the chair behind her desk, she motioned him into one of the seats facing her, but he ignored the invitation. The hooded woman stepped behind the Revered Mother’s desk and continued to study him.

“I have another assignment in mind for you, Commander Cullen, one which will fulfill the highest callings of your duty to the Maker and the Divine of the Chantry.”

“The Divine, Revered Mother? The Divine is Orlesian. She doesn’t require the protection of Ferelden templars.”

“She does when she is actually in Ferelden,” the hooded woman said, her voice tinged by her own Orlesian accent.

“Why would the Divine of the Chantry be in Ferelden? Even if it’s some kind of grand tour, she will have her own guards to protect her.”

The Revered Mother looked down at her hands for a long moment and then spread them in front of her on her desk. “The Divine believes that she is the only one who can broker peace between the mages and the templars. She plans to call a grand conclave to bring the two factions together to resolve their differences and stop this conflict before it erupts into a full-fledged war.”

Cullen swallowed the anger that rose in him and clenched one of his hands tightly at his side. They never learned, he admitted to himself. They never believed that it was impossible to control the mages, and the mages never believed that it was impossible to control the magic. But he knew better. No matter what they tried, some mage always succumbed to the temptation to allow a demon into their world, and templars always had to take steps to send the demon back where it belonged. It was the way of the world, the world that he had lived in at the Tower of Magi and in the Circle of Kirkwall. No one, no matter how highly placed in the Chantry, would ever convince him otherwise.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” he said sourly, “and you can tell the Divine that I said that if you want.”

“The Divine is perfectly aware of the uphill battle that awaits her,” the hooded woman replied, not seeming at all upset that he had basically called her mistress a fool. “Which is why she needs people like you at her side. People who have had personal experience with the results of using magic in … in all the wrong ways. Your standing beside her will show the templars and the mages that she is willing to hear all sides of the story, Commander.”

“I disagree,” he replied. “It will show only how deeply you can be wounded when you try to do what you believe in. When you try to protect those who do not fully understand how to protect themselves.”

The hooded woman smiled at him for some reason and came to sit on the front corner of the Revered Mother’s desk. Reaching up with her hands, she slid her hood from her head and waited as if she expected something from him. He studied her face again, feeling that sensation of familiarity, but he still couldn’t make the connection. Shaking his head slightly, he watched while she looked down at her hands and then started speaking again.

“I had hoped that you would remember me, Cullen,” she said, tracing some kind of pattern on the leg of her trousers. “But perhaps our meeting had been too brief or too … too fraught for you to recall it. I was in the Tower of Magi in Lake Calenhad after it had been broken. With the Hero of Ferelden.”

Cullen swallowed again and looked more closely at her face. Now he could see it, somewhere behind the traces of lines that spread out from her eyes and the little furrow that seemed to always be ready to appear between her eyebrows. She had been there, on the other side of that shimmering barrier, concerned and comforting, even while his mind had been shattering into a thousand pieces. She had seen him — seen the fear and doubt that had gripped him — and had heard him plead for the Hero of Ferelden and her compatriots to wipe out the mages at the top of the tower. When he had been broken, she had been one of the people who had tried to lead him back to wholeness. Little good it had done him.

“Leliana, wasn’t it?” he asked, crossing his arms on his chest. “Are you assuming that I will be grateful for your rescue in the Tower? That I will go along with this foolishness from some sense of obligation or gratitude for the steps that you and the Hero of Ferelden took to purge the Tower of its evil? Because I will tell you quite honestly, I have seen far worse since I was that boy. And your rescue made it possible for me to experience all of those things.”

He could see the little shudder that raced through Leliana’s slender frame, but he couldn’t drag even an iota of sympathy for her into his heart. His heart was a stone, hard and unforgiving, because of what he had seen and — Maker forgive him — what he had wanted to do.

But she was more resilient than he had imagined. “We have all suffered in our own ways through these recent years, Cullen. But, even when I felt that the darkspawn were tearing every remnant of my faith from me, even when Andraste had seemed to have turned her eyes away from her children, I believed in her. In the Divine. I have always known what she was capable of, how completely she is able to save any of her children’s souls from their own darkness. That is why I know that she can do this.”

Cullen shrugged again. “I applaud your faith in the Divine, Leliana, but you’re asking me — once again — to take a matter of earth-shattering importance on faith. On faith. Maker bless me, I’m done with believing that anything is possible if I don’t make it happen myself.”

That mystical smile spread across her lips again. “I had been counting on that, Commander. Because I’m not asking you to take anything on faith. I’m asking you to come with me and make this happen. I want you to be part of fulfilling the Divine’s vision to establish peace again across Thedas.”

Cullen looked sharply at the Revered Mother, who had folded her hands in front of her and appeared to be praying. When she met his eyes, he tried desperately to plead with her without saying the words, but she sighed and dropped her gaze to her hands once again.

“I can order you to go with Sister Leliana, to fulfill your duty to the Maker by protecting the Divine.” She sighed again and rose to her feet. “But I would prefer for you to make this decision yourself, Commander. A caged Mabari makes an inefficient guard dog, after all.”

Cullen frowned and turned away from the two women, staring at the door that led back into the Chantry. Guarding the Divine in the middle of a war between templars and mages might be the worst assignment ever, but he might also be able to use it to his advantage.

“One requirement,” he said, turning back to meet Leliana’s blue eyes. “I take this assignment, fulfill the Divine’s requirements in Ferelden, and my service to the templars is finished. I retire somewhere in the Hinterlands and am never required to meet the needs of the Chantry again.”

A strange smiled spread over Leliana’s lips, and she looked over her shoulder at the Revered Mother. After that woman had nodded, she turned her gaze back to him.

“Meet us in the village of Haven in a fortnight. We’ll be waiting for you there.”


	3. A Friendly Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora discovers that her plans could actually work -- and much sooner than she might expect.

Slipping her arms into the dress that her body servant was holding for her, Anora allowed the slender, older woman to close the fastenings, cinching the waist tightly and buttoning the sleeves at her wrists. She crossed the room to her glass, taking her place in front of it and allowing her maid to artfully arrange the length of her light gold hair into something that would please even the most demanding arlessa. Reaching for a pot of lotion, she smoothed it into her fingers, breathing in the scent of Andraste’s Grace that surrounded her when it was released from the cream.

“Had you been informed, your majesty?” her maid asked in her quiet, even voice. “Mi’Nehn has returned. She asks to be excused to refresh herself, and then she will await your pleasure.”

“Thank you, Hana,” she said. “I will receive her in my anteroom. Please ask her to join me as soon as she is able.”

Her maid nodded, her fingers deftly curling and pinning Anora’s hair in place. Since this woman had come into her service, she had allowed Hana to arrange her hair as she wished, abandoning the tight, braid-wrapped bun that she had worn for years. It had helped her appear to be less than she actually was — as simply a wife and a woman who enjoyed the fashion of the day — when the nobles around her and Alistair had needed to believe that he was the one in charge of the kingdom. It had worked, and she had rewarded her maid generously.

Of course, Hana was much more than she appeared to be on the surface. As were all of the serving women that Anora had gathered around her. In addition to her art in styling the queen’s hair and as a seamstress, the woman was also a skilled warrior who had spent years in the northern wilds of Thedas before she had been taken prisoner and sold to slavers who had brought her into Orlais. Hana had eventually escaped and had found her way to Denerim, where life after the threatened Blight had been less than ideal. But eventually, through her own careful investigations, Anora had found her and offered her a place in her household. She had been grateful when Hana had accepted, feeling a sense of relief at the new layer of security that had been wrapped around her.

“Had you received any reports on the king’s activities recently, Hana?” Anora asked slowly, never truly wanting to hear what her husband had been doing at night, alone, in the taverns and brothels of Denerim. But she had always believed that it was better to be informed than to let her ignorance lead her into situations that she couldn’t control.

“He drinks, and he talks, your majesty,” Hana replied. “As it has ever been.”

“No women then. He takes no one into his bed?”

Her maid shook her head, her braids of long, white hair swinging gently with the motion. “The only bed his majesty seeks is yours. And quite regularly, if I may be so bold.”

Anora smiled slightly and waved her hand to dismiss any idea that Hana might have that she was intruding in the queen’s private business. Since she had been a girl, Anora had known that there was always someone around to spy on her, someone who would report back to her father or her teachers from the Chantry — even the most innocent of her missteps. Of course, having a variety of nobles and religious representatives watching your first coupling tended to make you a little less … stuffy … about your sexual experiences, she had found. And, even after all these years, it was reassuring to know that Alistair was loyal to her when it came to relieving his sexual tensions.

“Will there be anything else, your majesty?” Hana asked when she was satisfied with her arrangement of Anora’s hair.

“No, thank you. Oh, wait …” she said, to catch the maid’s attention before she left the room. “Will you please inform his majesty that I have been delayed slightly? Tell him that I have requested he not hear from any supplicants until I have joined him.”

“Of course,” Hana replied. “As you will, your majesty.”

Anora nodded and waited for her maid to leave the room before she placed her elbows on the table in front of her and leaned her head against her hands. She must be insane, she whispered to herself, to even consider the plan that had been finalized when she had met that templar in the Chantry earlier this week. But it seemed the only way to ensure the succession and the peaceful transfer of power for the people of Ferelden.

At this point, it was only a matter of getting herself into his bed.

Lifting her head, she studied the face that was reflected back at her. She didn’t look at all like a crazy person, especially in the bright morning sunlight that spilled through the glass-covered windows of her bedroom. But maybe that was the secret: the crazy person never knows that she’s insane. Only those around her can see the truth.

Mi’Nehn would be her truth. Because she was the only one who knew what Anora had planned, here in the quiet of her own room, especially after she had seen that templar’s remarkable resemblance to her husband. Almost as if they had been sculpted or painted by the same artist. The same golden hair. The same lightly colored eyes. The same muscular build.

And if she could find a way into his bed, could seduce him and have him plant his seed inside of her, perhaps then she could prove that she wasn’t the one who was barren — had been barren — all these years. That it was her husbands’ faults that there was no heir, not hers.

And if not, well, at least she had done it in the name of the succession.

Because that was the only thing that concerned her in all of these machinations: that somehow, in some way, she be the one who made certain that the Theirin line continued. And that the people of Ferelden enjoyed more years of peace in which to recover from the destruction and depredation of the darkspawns’ attacks. Anora had spent years studying the family tree of the Theirins, trying to determine where the viable heir might be hiding. Alistair’s adoptive "uncle" Eamon was too old; that man's child was an apostate mage, so neither of them were useful options. And Eamon’s brother, Teagan, was taking his sweet time ensuring the continuing guardianship of Redcliffe under the Guerrin family, let alone providing her with an option for the succession.

Only a direct heir was going to ensure that Ferelden continued recovering — a child that she carried publicly, so that every member of the court had no doubt that it was hers.

And Alistair’s, of course.

Who would think otherwise? Anora was much too busy governing to ever leave Denerim, and if she did, it certainly would be in the company of the king. She wasn’t the kind of person who snuck about the city in the middle of the night, drinking with whoever happened to be sitting on the next stool. Those were the kinds of people you could expect to father any number of children with the women who would also frequent those taverns. Or have those children fathered on them, and then pushed to the edges of society when they were judged to be slatterns who didn’t have the ability to control their most instinctive physical urgings.

Anora could feel herself grinding her teeth together at the thought of those women: women who were often forced to accept the attentions of men. Desperation made so many things seem acceptable, and the male ego … well, it often had a hard time accepting “no” as an option. But when a child was the result, it was the woman alone who bore the burdens of that future and the stain on her reputation that could never be erased. Which usually only led to more desperation, because she would be lucky to be able to find employment, especially with the more upright, socially visible worshippers at the Chantry. The women suffered, and the men walked away without a care in the world.

Anora sighed for her sex, that stray thought slipping through her mind once again — that someone as stubborn and intelligent as she was truly should have been born a male. That it would have made so many of the moments of her past and future so much easier.

At least, if her first child was a female, she would be able to rule Ferelden without her right to the succession being questioned. After all, Orlais had a very capable queen who was proving to be qualified in any situation — political or military. Cailan’s grandmother had been queen in here own right. And Anora knew first hand what it took to be a leader and an efficient manager of her kingdom’s resources. Her daughter would be trained to handle any eventuality by a mother who had the necessary experience and influence to provide every type of knowledge that a future queen could require.

And if she bore a son … well, that would make everything that much easier.

The click of the latch in her antechamber attracted her attention, and Anora rose to her feet and left her private bedroom behind. Moving slowly, despite the hopeful flutter that started in her stomach, she walked into the room and scanned it quickly. In a moment, she found Mi’Nehn leaning against the frame of a window, staring out at the city around the keep.

The tall, willowy elf turned to look at her and levered away from the wall. Anora studied her while she seemed to stalk across the lush carpet to kneel at her feet. After the elf’s head bowed, the queen extended one hand and waited while the other woman pressed her forehead against her knuckles, a kind of secret signal that they had arranged between them so that Anora would always be certain that the elf was who she appeared to be. For long moments, she studied the other woman’s short, midnight hair, then commanded her to rise.

“Will you sit, Mi’Nehn?” she asked politely, slipping into one of the chairs and perching on the front edge. She kept her voice pitched low and soft, simply so that no one who might be eavesdropping would hear her conversation. Carefully folding her hands together, she placed them on her lap in an attempt to hide their anxious trembling.

“I would prefer not, your majesty,” the elf replied softly, rising from her place and moving slightly so that she could easily look down into Anora’s face. Her lilac-colored eyes glittered when a gust of wind released a shaft of sunlight from the shadow of the curtains that hung across the tall windows. The gleam also highlighted the wicked-looking scar that creased the golden tan of her cheek from the edge of her eye to the outside corner of her chin. Other than her head, the rest of the elf’s entire body was encased in lightweight, grey-dyed leather armor, and while Anora couldn’t see a single weapon anywhere on the woman’s body, she knew that there were at least six hidden within easy reach.

Tucking a stray strand of hair back behind the top of one of her long ears, Mi’Nehn settled into a quietly wary position, seeming to be coiled to strike at a moment’s notice. It was that casual alertness that had first attracted Anora’s attention to the young elven woman and then she had initiated her own investigations into background and personal history. She had found both to be uniquely blank, and she had been forced to approach the woman herself in order to learn more. It had taken time and persistence, but finally Mi’Nehn had admitted that she had been trained as an assassin in Antiva. Her house had gotten the worst of a clan war, and she had barely managed to escape to Ferelden with her life. She had spent months working at odd jobs, but Anora was certain that she had taken more than simple “jobs,” considering her training. When the queen had offered her a place in her household, Mi’Nehn hadn’t exactly jumped at the opportunity, and it had taken all of her persuasive abilities to convince the elf to even give her one month of service based on a contingency. That month had extended to a second month. And then a third. Until …

Until this day. Mi’Nehn was the only servant that she could trust unconditionally with her secrets, but Anora still only shared so much with the woman. Her years of growing up, surrounded by spies from the Chantry and her father’s enemies, had made her reluctant to share too much with anyone.

But she had trusted Mi’Nehn with this assignment. And she had to know …

“How was your journey? Was it comfortable enough?”

The elf nodded. “Traveling by horseback certainly cuts time from one’s trip. From now on, I think I’ll prefer it to walking.”

Anora laughed lightly. “From now on, I suppose you can. The king had made the re-establishment of Ferelden’s horse breeding programs a priority for the future. Some day, perhaps no one will walk in our kingdom.” She stopped herself from continuing, feeling like she was talking simply to keep from hearing the rest of the elf’s report. “And the villagers?” Anora asked reluctantly, feeling her anxiety rise up into her throat and threaten to choke her voice off completely. “Were they forthcoming with the information that you needed? Did you have any problems communicating … your desires to them?”

Mi’Nehn shook her head. “No problems whatsoever, your majesty. Unfortunately, they seemed more eager to talk about the time when the Hero of Ferelden and his majesty — before he was crowned king, of course — visited them, but I was able to gather the information that you need.”

Anora swallowed, trying to push her fears aside. “And? What did you discover for me?”

The elf shrugged. “The family lives in the village and seems to have been marginally successful for generations. There are sisters and one brother, and I can report that they are healthy and seem completely normal. There was no evidence of family traits such as birthmarks or physical deformities, and they each seemed mentally sound. I believe that you would have nothing to fear from begetting a child with Commander Cullen Rutherford.”

Anora nodded briefly and rose to cross to the windows. In the little strips of blue sky that were visible through the openings, she occasionally saw a flash of the wheeling seagulls that circled away from the docks. Their rowdy calls blended with the chatter rising from the streets, but she was so familiar with the sounds, she barely heard them most of the time. Dragging her eyes away from the freewheeling arcs of the birds’ flight, she looked up at Mi’Nehn, who was patiently waiting for her to continue. Returning to the chair where she had been seated, she resumed her perch on the edge.

“Your observations of the templar himself?” she asked. This information would cement her decision, because Anora knew that she could trust the elf’s ability to almost instantly read another person.

“Steady. Dutiful. Intelligent.” Mi’Nehn shifted on her feet, and Anora sharpened her attention. The elf was unfailingly honest with her, but when she didn’t immediately continue her report, the queen knew that there was something bothering her.

“What else?” she asked, nodding slightly to encourage the woman to continue.

“For the most part, he is disconnected: no close friends or family, very few alliances in the order. But … your majesty, there is the matter of the templars.”

“Why? Do you think they would seek retribution against him if they were suspicious of his behavior?”

“No, it’s not that.” Mi’Nehn frowned and crossed her arms on her spare chest. “It’s … you know about their … addictions, don’t you, your majesty?”

It was Anora’s turn to frown, and she shook her head slightly.

The elf sighed. “The Chantry keeps it a tightly guarded secret, but each templar is given a regular dosage of lyrium to allow him or her to be able to resist or slightly counteract the magic that mages can perform. The problem is, they cannot ever be without it. It causes severe withdrawal symptoms and other side effects.”

Anora dropped her gaze to the hands that she had clenched together in her lap. The tiny light of hope that she had been holding close in her heart seemed suddenly to fizzle, and she could feel tears of frustration gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“I would conjecture that impotence might be one of them, your majesty,” Mi’Nehn continued solemnly, “or at least a reduced ability to procreate, but I haven’t been able to find a templar who will confirm that for me.”

Of course not, Anora scoff silently. No man would ever admit that he couldn’t perform. And since so many of the leaders in the templar ranks were male, information like that would certainly be suppressed. “The commander himself?”

Mi’Nehn shrugged. “He seems consumed with his duties. I couldn’t discover a long-term relationship at any time in the last few years. As I said, he is uniquely disconnected.”

“Thank you for your service,” Anora said, rising to her feet. She studied the elf for a moment longer and then said, “I thought you had taken time to freshen up before you came to me, Mi’Nehn. Why haven’t you changed into your household uniform?”

“I assumed you wanted me to continue to monitor the commander, your majesty,” the elf replied. “If you would prefer me in the castle …”

Anora shook her head. As usual, the other woman had been thinking steps ahead of her own thought processes. Turning toward the door, she motioned for Mi’Nehn to follow her, stopping just in front of the thick, wooden portal. “We’re happy to have you returned safely to us. Please resume those duties to which you have previously been assigned, Mi’Nehn,” she said clearly, hoping that anyone listening at the keyhole would be satisfied with what they heard. Grasping the handle, she pulled the door open and motioned for the elf to leave her.

Mi’Nehn stepped into the hallway and bowed deeply in response. “As you wish, your majesty,” the elf replied before she turned on her heel and strode away from the door. Anora paused for one deep breath before she stepped into the hallway and moved in the opposite direction, toward the great hall where she hoped that Alistair had waited for her to appear before he started listening to the supplications of his arls, artisans, merchants, and peasants. The guards who had been stationed outside her door fell in step behind her, their armor clattering in time with the steady beat of their booted feet. Anora tried to ignore the sound: there was much in the rhythmic clatter that reminded her of watching Cailan head off to Ostagar and battling to prepare Denerim for the attack of the Archdemon. That a certain noise could make her feel the pain of those scars once again told her that she might never recover from those memories. That she might never find a way to move forward that would bring her something besides the demands of duty to her kingdom.

When Anora stepped into the great hall, she controlled the urge to look toward the raised dais where Alistair’s throne sat beside her own and nodded politely at the people who quickly sank into bows and curtseys around her. When she had turned at last to approach her husband, she saw that he was adjusting his posture, rising from the petulant slump that he usually took when he was alone and being forced to listen to reports from his uncle and other advisors. Their eyes met, and he rose to his feet to approach her, extending his hand to guide her up the steps and raising it to his lips when she was beside him. She could hear a little sigh sweep around the room — all those silly women who believed that she didn’t deserve to be the wife of the romanticized hero who now ruled them — but she ignored it and allowed Alistair to lead her to her throne. Taking her place beside him, she gazed vaguely at the assembled supplicants and smiled graciously.

The day stretched tediously before her after that, and she could feel her impatience growing while she helped Alistair through the process of appeasing his subjects. Because it was their scheduled audience day, their servants brought them food and drink in the great hall, keeping Alistair’s mug filled with a very watered-down ale and a cup of warm tea close by her elbow. As the afternoon wore on, their food options were replaced, and Anora was surprised to see Mi’Nehn standing at her elbow, dressed in her servant’s uniform. Tipping her head in that direction, she motioned for the elf to approach and listened intently for a moment. When her assassin-protector had finished, she met her gaze and saw the slight nod that was the answer to the question in her eyes. Turning in her throne, she leaned closer to Alistair to attract his attention and smiled gently at him when he turned his focus to her.

“Your majesty,” she began softly, “I have just heard that we have a special guest in the audience chamber. A templar who was in Kirkwall when the Chantry was destroyed.”

“Really?” Alistair said enthusiastically, scanning the remaining supplicants with eager eyes. Of course, his early training had been with the templars, and Anora had found that he always enjoyed sharing the stories of his experiences with other soldiers and listening to theirs in return. “Do you think … Eamon, could you call …?”

Anora placed one hand on his sleeve and squeezed his arm. “Perhaps, your majesty, it might be wiser to hear his report in private. We could invite him …”

“To dinner!” Alistair continued. “Yes! Tonight. Let’s do it!” Curiously, he stopped himself and looked over at her uncertainly. “If that would be all right with you, my dear. You wouldn’t be too bored, listening to old soldiers swap stories like that?”

“We both know that it will be better for us to receive a first-hand recounting of the events in Kirkwall, your majesty,” she said in response, smiling slightly to thank him wordlessly for his consideration. “And I am certain we both believe that the great hall is not the best place for us to received such an unvarnished report.”

A frown pressed between Alistair’s eyebrows, and Anora felt a sudden need to smooth it away. Absently, she reached out to wrap her fingers around his hand and squeeze it gently. “Should I have one of the guards …?” he started uncertainly.

“My lady’s maid is familiar with the man’s appearance,” she said softly, hoping that she had managed to keep her voice even. “I can send her, if you would like for her to extend your invitation to him.”

Alistair smiled brightly at her and lifted her hand to his lips. When his attention was fixed on his uncle again, she turned and gestured for Mi’Nehn to join her on the dais.

In moments, the next step in her plan was put into motion. Anora let a little, secret smile play at her lips for a moment before she returned her attention to the supplicant who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. And still, the smile lingered.


	4. See a Man About a Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen accepts an unexpected invitation to dine with the king and queen. But he still has preparations to make ...
> 
> It's a real horse ... really ...

Cullen shifted against the wall that supported the upper tier of the great hall in the royal keep in Denerim, that tier where the members of the landsmeet gathered to deliver their judgements, the area that so clearly represented the division between the nobles and the working people of Ferelden. To him, it was a false divide, because it was just as easy for a child of a noble to be born with magic as it was for the child of a peasant. In those cases, the nobility was simply better equipped to hide that child from the control of templars and the guidance of a circle of magi, their hubris as toxic as the original pride of the Tevinter magisters who had released the taint of the darkspawn on Thedas.

Someone always believes, Cullen thought, that he or she knows better than the people who have dealt with these issues for generations, who have trained phalanx after phalanx of soldiers to protect both the mages and the common people from that uncontrollable power. Someone is always wrong.

Shifting on his feet, he crossed his arms on his chest and looked up toward the dais at the front of the room again. Since he had walked into the great hall, he had found his eyes almost magnetically drawn to the slender, regal woman seated at the front of the room, his attention glued to even the slightest motion that she made with those long, graceful fingers. He justified his attention easily to himself; after all, he was among dozens of supplicants who desired a moment of their liege lord’s attention. Anyone who was hoping to be brought forward into the hearing of the king and queen was watching the two of them with eager anticipation. He was one alert, anxious courtier among many.

For some reason, his personal sense of paranoia began clamoring when a tall, black-haired elf dressed in the livery of the king’s private household stepped close to the queen and whispered to her for a long moment. Cullen frowned when he saw the queen nod to her servant and then a sharp little pain stabbed through him when she leaned closer to the king and spoke to him in that soft, warm voice and with those tender, pink lips. He scolded himself for that twinge, knowing that the woman who was his queen was beyond him in every possible way: him, the son of regular people of the land, a soldier sworn to the Chantry. The impossibilities stacked themselves in front of him, blurring his vision of the ethereal beauty sitting beside the king, who had raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against those fingers.

The fingers he had held in his own hand earlier that week. Fingers he could have kissed if he had only been brave enough to make the effort.

Fingers that he had — and continued to have — inappropriate thoughts about ever since he had seen her coming down the main aisle of the Chantry in Denerim.

His dreams had been filled with her, he admitted to himself, since that afternoon when he had been assigned to the protection of the Divine in Haven. Every night, he had tossed and turned, seeing the queen studying him with those azure eyes, imagining her lips and fingertips tracing patterns on his body. Standing there in the great hall of the keep, he ruthlessly pushed those remembrances away, fighting to keep the obvious signs of the arousal that he had experienced in his hard cot in the Chantry’s templar barracks from recurring there in public. He shifted his new cloak around his shoulders, letting one panel of the fabric settle in front of him, shielding him from any curious eyes which might look in his direction.

No one did, of course. He was just one templar among many, and all these good Andrastians were used to seeing — even grateful to see — templars among them. He was the shield against the unknowable.

Of course, he was a broken shield, but they would never know that.

Sighing, his gaze returned to Queen Anora’s face, and even from his hiding place across the room, he could see the little smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. For some reason, the sign of her pleasure made him want to mirror it back to her, and he could feel his lips move involuntarily into a grin. There was something about that smile that seemed to make her more ethereal, magnifying her natural beauty and releasing the shine of her spirit for the entirety of Thedas to see.

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his hand. He needed to stop thinking these thoughts about his queen, at least while he was anywhere within bow shot of that woman, because he actually had no way of knowing when he would be brought before her. And the king. Keeping his focus on his duty was the only way he was going to survive the rest of this afternoon, and so he straightened and adjusted the lay of his armor across his chest. Inhaling deeply, he told himself to be patient and dropped his shoulder against the wall again.

“Excuse me, Commander Cullen?”

Looking to his side, he found the elf who had whispered in Queen Anora’s ear standing next to him, her eyes meekly studying the floor at his feet. Turning to face her, he smiled gently and replied, “I’m Commander Cullen. Can I help you with something?”

The woman nodded and dropped into a quick curtsey. “Their majesties, King Alistair and Queen Anora, invite you to dinner this evening. They ask you to join them so that you may share your experiences in Kirkwall with them in private.”

Cullen bowed his head. “Please tell their majesties that I will await their pleasure.”

The elf looked up at him quickly. “Perhaps you would like to follow me, commander. I could take you to a more comfortable room where you could refresh yourself before you dine with their majesties.”

He shook his head slightly. “I apologize, but I have preparations to finish before I depart for the Frostback Mountains on the morrow. When would you recommend that I return …?”

“Would you accept an invitation to spend the night in the keep? It may make your departure in the morning easier, ser.”

“I … uh …” Cullen started and then stopped. Could he do it? Could he actually spend the evening in the queen’s presence and the night within arm’s reach of her and not make a complete fool of himself? He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced quickly at the dais, seeing that Anora had risen to her feet and had crossed to the supplicant who was presenting his case to the king and queen. While he watched, she accepted some kind of gift from the man, and he could see a red flush rise in the supplicant’s face at the words that the queen said to him. Maybe being close to this woman, if only for one evening, might be worth the insomnia he certainly would suffer.

“King Alistair enjoys spending time with soldiers like yourself,” the elf explained persuasively. “And your interaction might continue until late in the evening. We would make you as comfortable as possible and reduce any inconvenience to you in appreciation for your time.”

“If this is what their majesties desire,” he replied, “I will acquiesce. I need to fetch my gear from the Chantry, and I had planned to purchase a horse …”

“His majesty’s stables will provide you with a mount,” the elf suggested. “In appreciation of your time and insights.”

Sighing, Cullen looked around, suddenly feeling as if he had been backed into a corner and checking whether there was a route that he could use to escape. That uneasy feeling of paranoia shivered down his spine again, and he wondered whether he would be more of a fool to decline or accept.

“The king was especially desirous of hearing about your experiences with the templars, especially since he began his military training with the Chantry.”

“Fine, yes,” Cullen agreed sullenly. “I will return immediately and plan to spend the night as the guest of my king and queen.”

“Would you like me to send a footman to help you with your things?” the elf asked helpfully, but he shook his head in response.

“I have little, and the horse had actually been my most pressing concern. If you’re certain that the king will provide me with a mount …?”

“Of course, Commander. Without question. Their majesties are nothing if not generously accommodating.” The elf dipped that quick curtsey again. “I will personally await your return and take you to your room. The king and queen typically dine shortly after bells at sundown, if you would return before then.”

Cullen neatly turned on his heel and marched out the door, into the courtyard, and through the front gates into Denerim. Glancing up at the brilliant blue of the sky — Maker take it, why did it have to look so much like her eyes? — he estimated the hour by the position of the sun and angled his steps toward the Chantry.

There really wasn’t much time left in the day, but now that he didn’t have to find a vendor and haggle with the man for a mount, he had significantly fewer goals to achieve. He wandered along the streets of the city, knowing that he was perfectly safe here, but still checking for the most defensible positions, scanning the openings of alleyways to make certain that he wasn’t about to be attacked. After all of his years of living in Kirkwall, he probably shouldn’t feel so paranoid, but maybe it was because of Kirkwall that he felt that way. There always seemed to be someone lurking, somewhere in the background, who wanted to do harm to the innocent living in the cities simply for the protection that they promised.

But it wasn’t his concern: he was assigned to protection of the Divine, in the mountains of Thedas. He was going to have to trek across the entire kingdom to stand around and ensure that no one made it past her defenses — not the unbound mages or renegade templars or any of a dozen others who would prefer failure in this matter. It was insanity on top of insanity, but maybe it was the only way to deal with the unhinged representatives of both sides of this war.

Or maybe he was going to have to be the rational one. One among a dozen lunatics.

Crossing one of the bridges that led toward Denerim’s marketplace, he stopped in the center and leaned his forearms on the supporting structure. He stared down at the water that meandered past, not in any hurry to join the sea outside of the city’s walls, feeling much the same as the blue-green flow. Even though he was expected by the king and queen, he wasn’t at all eager to spend the evening entertaining them with stories of the disaster of the Chantry in Kirkwall. Or lifting his mug in hollow toasts to the might of the templars and the power of their training. It would be a trial, but he could endure it.

He could endure it for her.

She would be there, of course, her hand resting on the king’s arm, her eyes lingering in loving concern on her husband’s face. If she looked at him at all, it would be with patient indulgence for the stories that he would share. There would be pretended interest in the chatter between men, but he doubted that he would see genuine concern reflected in the queen’s eyes.

She isn’t yours, he argued with himself, so there’s no reason for you to expect that the queen would spare even a modicum of attention for you. There are more important things to occupy her mind than one lonely, disaffected templar about to be shipped to the other side of the kingdom.

That would be the solution, of course. When he was under the eye of the Divine, his tendency to think these salacious thoughts about his queen would disappear. She would be a nation away from him, and he would be lost in his duties. And when he did remember her, it would simply be as a tender dream of what could have been. Once upon a time. In another life.

Pushing away from the railing, he continued his journey to the Chantry, walking into the templars’ barracks and quickly locating the bunk that he had been borrowing. He found his pack on the floor beneath the mattress and quickly stuffed his few belongings into it. There wasn’t much that he could call his own — his custom-fitted armor and the blade that his family had scraped together the gold to buy for him. His boots and some other clothing items. His coin.

He sat on the bed, smoothing it between his fingers: the coin that his brother had given him on the day that he had left for his training with the templars. His brother had told him that it was lucky, but Cullen had yet to see any positive effect from his keeping it in his purse over the years. Unless it was the fact that, despite all of the deadly upheaval around him, he was still alive. It might be enough of a reason to keep the little bit of metal, especially if everything went the way that he actually expected it to go with the Divine’s negotiations.

Sighing, he slid the coin back into his purse and dropped it into his pack. Tossing it over his shoulder, he picked up his sword from where it was racked, sheathed it, and walked toward the exit into the courtyard of the Chantry.

“Cullen,” a voice called to him, and he turned to see the knight-commander who had recommended his transfer. He waited for the man to stop in front of him, raising one eyebrow curiously. “Leaving us already, are you?”

He shook his head, dropping his pack on the floor so that he could adjust the lay of his sword belt around his waist. “I have been invited to share my experiences in Kirkwall with the king and queen at dinner tonight. Because the hour is expected to grow very late, the staff offered to house me overnight. I will depart for Haven from there in the morning.”

A crooked grin stretched the other man’s lips, and Cullen looked at the door to the courtyard, desperately wanting to be away from this man’s derision. “Enjoy the king’s stories,” the knight-commander laughed, gripping one of his shoulders with a beefy hand. “He speaks nostalgically about his training, of course, and there’s always going to be the one about that Archdemon fellow. But honestly, all he wants is to feel like he’s still part of the action — military action. Even though he is the ultimate commander of all of Ferelden’s armies, he longs for that connection to the common soldier. Be common with him, Cullen, and you’ll have done more than simply enjoyed a pleasant meal.”

“I appreciate the advice,” he replied, picking up his pack from the floor and sliding his arm through the strap. “And thanks for the recommendation for transfer, even if it didn’t actually materialize. The Maker’s blessing on you, knight-commander.”

Cullen extended his hand and took the other man’s forearm in a tight grip. Turning precisely, he walked out the doors and into the courtyard. Passing through the marketplace, he listened to the calls of the merchants, the rumbling of the voices of the shoppers, the everyday sounds of the city wrapping up the last of its needs before returning home for dinner. Dinners that would be served at simple wooden tables next to fireplaces or long banqueting tables with posing nobles trying to surpass each other in malicious politeness. He knew which of the meals that he would prefer, but he was committed to the pleasure of the king and queen, no matter his own opinion. He trudged through the city streets, back the way that he had come, watching the sky turn rosy and golden all around him. Sooner than he had expected, he was back at the keep and walking through the large, wooden doors that were held open for him by members of the household guard. The black-haired elf who had extended the king and queen’s invitation met him in the foyer.

“Commander Cullen,” she said politely, dipping a curtsey to him. He frowned at the gesture, knowing that he didn’t deserve the deference that the motion implied, but also accepting that it was a habit that was so ingrained in the servants of the royal household that it probably was a reflexive action on the elf’s part. “If you will follow me, I will take you to the chamber that has been assigned to you for the evening.”

“Thank you. Would it be possible for me to have a bath before I dine with the king and queen?”

“Of course, commander. You have only to ask.”

He trailed after the young woman, waiting while she stopped to speak to a young servant, who nodded and moved off in another direction. When they reached the room, she opened the door for him and stepped to one side. Crossing to the bed, he dropped his pack on the floor and looked around at the generously spacious room.

“I hope that this will be adequate for your comfort, commander,” the elf said, stepping into the room behind him. “A bath is being brought from the kitchens as we speak, and if there is anything else that you require, simply speak with one of the servants.”

“Thank you … uh … would it be appropriate for me to know your name? I’m not precisely used to life at court,” he said, scrubbing one hand against his chin.

“I am Mi’Nehn, commander,” the elf replied. “If you have a specific need, please ask for one of the servants to find me. We’re happy to serve you.” With that, she left him.

Cullen nodded and opened his pack, locating a clean set of clothing and placing it on the bed. He had started unfastening the buckles that held his armor together when someone rapped softly on the door and opened it. Two elven men entered, carrying a copper bath between them, which they set on the thick carpet in front of the crackling fire. In moments, what seemed like an army of other servants followed, emptying bucket after bucket of water into the tub until it was adequate for his needs. Watching them leave, he tried to thank them, but they ignored his comments and scurried back into the hallway, back to their duties.

He worked the buckles steadily, one after the next, until each piece was neatly arranged on a chair near the bed. Crossing to the fire, he stood with one forearm against the mantle and leaned his head against it, watching the leaping play of the flames. But they only reminded him of their power to destroy, to reduce everything in their path to char and ash. There was nothing there to guide or save him.

Stripping the rest of his clothing from his body, Cullen stepped into the bath and settled back against the sloping side, letting the warm waters slip gently up against his chest, enveloping him in their comforting heat. He rarely had the time to simply luxuriate in a tub, and this late in the afternoon, it probably wasn’t wise to do it during this bath. But it had been much too long, and the water seemed able to soothe away the edgy uncertainty that filled him. He found a bar of soap and a cloth on a small stool beside the tub and scrubbed them together, creating a lather that he used to erase the lingering scent of Kirkwall. The fires. The blood. The death.

Dunking his head under the water, he used the soap on his short-cropped hair, rubbing with a little more vigor than what actually may have been called for, but finding comfort in the simple act of cleaning his scalp and body. He rinsed his hair and closed his eyes for a few moments.

But then his sense of duty snapped him to attention, and he rose from the tub. Picking up the large bathing sheet that the servants had brought, he stood in front of the fire and briskly rubbed himself dry. After he had carefully folded the towel, he crossed to the bed and slipped into the clothing that he had left lying there. Pulling on his boots, he made final adjustments to his apparel and crossed to the door.

He took a deep breath and pulled it open, ready to face whatever was to come during his dinner with the king and queen of Ferelden.


	5. Nighttime is the Right Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora takes advantage of the darkness and the hour and the inattention of her servants.
> 
> Oh, yes. And Cullen.
> 
> Back to the smut. Story be damned.

Hustling after her assassin-protector, Anora silently lifted a prayer to the Maker that she not be discovered — that Andraste would guide her footsteps along a pathway that would guarantee peace for Ferelden. If she were a deeply faithful woman, she might have believed that the Maker had made this moment possible. After all, she had first seen the templar in the Chantry, the Maker’s and Andraste’s holy place. Wasn’t that a sign?

But long ago, Anora had become a creature of almost pure reason, knowing that her mind was stronger than any man’s superstition. Not that she wasn’t willing to use another’s beliefs to attain her own goals when it was the most logical solution to any problem. But she had learned over the years that she was a fool to put her faith in a deity who not only hadn’t saved his own beloved prophet from the pyre that had killed her, but also, in the ultimate act of rejection, had abandoned his own people. Left them to their own devices. Turned his back on them and never looked back.

It was the canon of the Chantry. An entire faith based on chasing after a man who had abandoned each and every one of them. That, perchance, if enough people believed and lifted their voices in the Chant of Light, that he would turn and look over his shoulder at them. Notice them again. Maybe even return.

Anora never had and never would chase after a man who had rejected her. And she certainly wouldn’t make excuses for any man’s behavior. Even her father, Loghain Mac Tir.

In all honesty, she had breathed a sigh of relief when Alister had dueled and defeated her father. Watching his glimmering blade arc through Loghain’s neck, seeing the resigned eyes that stared back at her while his head rolled across the floor of the great hall, Anora had experienced an unique sensation. Overwhelming grief at the death of her father — her only living relative — of course. But in that moment, she had felt the relief of knowing that she was free. She had allowed her father’s death to take place at the hand of the man who would be king. As the crowned queen, the widow of the former monarch, she could have commanded the soldiers to continue their battle with Alistair and his comrades — despite any clandestine arrangements that she had made with the usurpers.

But it was more than the commitments that she had made. As the pressures of ruling had mounted around her father, she had been forced to question his sanity and whether he had the temperament to guide Ferelden into the future. At times, he had seemed unreachable, wrapped in his own paranoia and the memories of the war with Orlais.

So, when relief had flooded through her while Loghain’s head had tumbled across the stones of the keep, she had welcomed the sensation, knowing that she had been released from the future that her father had planned. She needn’t continue the direction that he had had for the kingdom; she and Alistair could choose their own roads. She also didn’t need to live in the shadow of her father’s madness — if that was what it had been — and ultimately, she was free to make her own choices and be her own person.

She could be the person who would do whatever was necessary to ensure the peaceful transfer of power to a new king. Or queen. A monarch of her own making, born from her body, who would be raised from birth to understand the responsibilities of putting the kingdom first.

Not that any of the previous monarchs — at least in the most recent decades — had understood that need. Maric, Cailan’s father, had sewn seeds of mistrust with Loghain, his closest friend and advisor, through the romantic entanglements that had surrounded them, and Cailan had desired glory more than peace and prosperity.

Her child would be different, she swore, maybe as a commitment to the Maker, if he would only protect her footsteps, help her reach her destination without being discovered. Or maybe she was simply making a promise to herself.

Mi’Nehn gestured toward her, and Anora quickly focused on her protector, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest with the fear that they had been discovered. She pressed herself tightly against one wall, tugging the hood of her cloak farther forward to hide her face. Taking in a deep breath, she focused on letting it out slowly, trying to release her tension with her exhalation. The willowy elf looked back over her shoulder at her and nodded, and Anora rushed to keep up with the woman’s longer strides.

Finally, Mi’Nehn paused at a door and, through some trick of her assassin’s training or her own nimbleness, it opened soundlessly. Passing through the portal, Anora looked over at the elf who nodded at her and accepted the cloak the queen quickly relinquished. Mi’Nehn would be there when she was ready to return to her own chambers. Standing just inside the room, dressed only in her shift, she waited for the door to click softly closed beside her, letting her eyes adjust to the light of the single candle that burned on the small table near the bed.

Aurora pressed her back against the wall, feeling her palms slip across the stone from the damp that had sprung up on them. She swallowed hard once, and then again, silently willing her feet to step across the room and climb into that bed. To take her place and seduce the templar. To claim her future and ensure the succession. To do what was necessary for the sake of the kingdom.

A noise from the bed caught her attention, and she listened for a long moment to the groaning and unrecognizable words that spilled from the templar’s mouth. Obviously, the man was having some kind of nightmare, and she wondered briefly if his conversations with Alistair had stirred unpleasant memories for him. Not everyone enjoyed reliving their pasts as her husband did, but she had rarely been a witness to such a reluctant exchange of experiences. And considering that Commander Cullen had been both in the Circle Tower in Lake Calenhad when it had been broken and in Kirkwall when the Chantry had exploded when the mages had begun their revolt, she couldn’t blame him. He had been a participant in two of the worst mage-related events in the past decade of Thedas’s history. It was enough to shred any man’s soul.

When the templar cried out again, she quickly crossed the floor and stood staring down at him. He had tossed and turned so much on the bed that the blankets had been lodged between his legs, exposing one hip to her eyes, showing her that he slept naked. His brow was creased with pain or worry, and she could feel herself wanting to reach out to smooth those deeply pressed lines away.

But first, she leaned down and blew out the candle that burned at his bedside.

The room was plunged into a darkness that was almost impossible to penetrate, except for a glimmer of indirect light from the moon that was setting on the other side of the castle. Looking down at the templar again, Anora moved to sit at his side, carefully lowering herself onto the mattress so that she wouldn’t wake him. He was a soldier, after all, and from what she had heard in those long evenings at Alistair’s side, military men seemed to be notoriously light sleepers. When he shifted and flailed against the bedding, she froze and held her breath, only letting it out when he rolled onto his side away from her.

Anora took it as her signal to join him, so she slid next to his body, trying not to touch him until she was ready. With infinite care, she guided one hand above his hip and then reached down, taking his member between her fingers at the same moment that she pressed her breasts against his back, preventing him from turning toward her.

“Wha-? Who?” the templar grumbled, suddenly awakening and lifting his head to look around.

“Shh …” Anora murmured, purposely deepening her voice and then tightening her grip on his manhood. She dropped her head down behind his shoulder so that he couldn’t see her face in the weak moonlight. “I’m here to comfort you.”

He laughed shortly and tried to reposition himself, but she pressed tightly against his back and wouldn’t let him turn. Moaning softly, he stopped trying to move and let his head fall back against his arm. “If comfort is what you’re meant to provide, you’re not going to get it by holding on to that part of my anatomy, my dear.”

She chuckled and continued her gentle exploration. “There are many forms of comfort to be found, ser. Perhaps it’s simplest to start with this one.”

“Simplest?” he questioned. “Why would you call this simple? Because it’s your profession? Did someone in the castle pay you to provide this … comfort?”

“Do you always talk so much to women who have willingly joined you in your bed?”

He laughed shortly, a bitter sound that grated on her ears. “It has been my habit to actually talk to the women who come to my bed before they arrive there. It has invariably made them more willing, I have found. But to my original question: were you paid? And if so, by whom?”

“I’m no man’s whore,” Anora replied, trying to force herself to remain calm and keep her voice quiet and more deeply pitched. “I saw you in the castle tonight, and there was something …”

“I’m not the hero that they all want me to be, you know,” he said, sighing deeply. “Whatever glorious image that you conjured when you saw me, it’s a lie.” With those words, he turned away from her, ending her grip on his manhood by rotating onto his stomach.

Anora would not be deterred, however. Sliding up onto his body, she continued to press herself against him, reaching down to cup and squeeze his buttocks while she did. “I wasn’t at all attracted by the tales that I was told,” she replied, sliding one long finger between his legs. The commander jumped and groaned, trying to straighten away from the probing of her hand — but seeming to want her to continue at the same time. Leaning closer, she pressed her lips to the muscles of his back, inching her fingers closer to the place where his thighs met with steady strokes.

“What was it, then?” he asked.

She sighed against the back of his neck, reaching her other arm up to smooth his hair and play with the edge of his ear. “There was something … something sad about your face while I watched you. Like you were a tapestry that had been ripped in two, but you hadn’t quite been put back together the right way. I could see the image, but there … but the sides didn’t quite match.”

“You saw that, did you? From your position as a server in the dining hall?”

“I … I was … wasn’t …” Anora wanted to groan in frustration. Maker help her, would this templar never be quiet so that she could do what she had planned? “I was watching you from the shadows,” she lied. “I wasn’t actually supposed to be in the dining hall tonight.”

“Or in my bed, I suppose.” He shifted under her, seeming reluctant to have her stop, struggling against his own mounting desire. The fingers of one hand continued to stroke the flesh of his thighs, occasionally brushing against the delicate skin of his scrotum, and the templar pumped his hips against the bed when she touched that tender part of him. “Could you tell me why you’re really here? I … I have a hard time believing that my personal magnetism is that powerful, no matter what you say.”

She sighed and decided to try a new tactic. Keeping her hand were it was, she rubbed her chest against his back, feeling her nipples harden from the friction of her shift. “As I said, I’m no man’s whore, and just because I enjoy the act, it doesn’t make me a whore either. I want you. Can’t it be as simple as that?”

“Again with simplicity.”

“Right now, here in this bed, it is simple, commander. You simply have to accept what’s offered to you.”

“Who are you? What should I call you?” At the same time, he reached back with one of his hands and slid it against her hip where it was covered by her shift.

“Does it matter? I can be whomever you want,” Anora whispered, trailing her lips over his shoulder.

He chuckled, and she could feel his body shake with his humor. “You might not want to say that. I could ask you to be the Revered Mother or … or the queen.”

Anora nearly gasped, but she swallowed the sound, determined to maintain her role without giving herself away. “I see. You respond best to a woman of authority.”

“No … no! I didn’t …”

But she ignored him, sliding against him so that she could take one earlobe between her teeth, tugging on it and then dragging on it with a hard, suckling motion. Slipping across his body, she wormed her hands under his side, flipping him onto his back and moving with him so that she could mount him. She was grateful that the moon had continued its decline and that only the weakest glimmer of the watchfires and torches penetrated the windows at the far end of the room. Anora scooted down his body so that the joining of her thighs spread its heat against the shaft that was stiffening under her and dropped her lips against his in a demanding kiss.

For a moment, she believed that she had gone too far, because he remained unmoving beneath her, almost as if she had shocked him into an aghast stillness. Then, just when she was determined that she should try something else, he reached up and clutched the back of her head, trapping her face against his own while his lips slid open. Answering his invitation, she let her tongue play against his while her hands slipped across his chest. Stroking the hard muscles, her fingertips found one of his very male nipples, and she tweaked it, returning to squeeze it even more sharply the second time. He gasped against her mouth and pulled away, his hands wrapping around her hips to pull her more tightly against him when he thrust upward from the bed. While she kneaded his torso, his own fingers traced up and down the curves of her thighs and calves, his head turning against the pillow. Leaning forward, Anora bit down on the hard column of his neck, sucking the flesh into her mouth, nibbling up and onto his jaw until her lips finally found his again.

While her mouth teased his, Anora let her hands slide across the templar’s body, enjoying the telltale pulse of his member under her. His fingers twisted in the hem of her shift, but she brought both of her hands to forestall him, levering both of his arms up above his head and dropping her face close to his ear so that she could whisper to him.

“You haven’t asked permission for that, have you?” Latching her teeth to his throat again, she felt him swallow.

“Please,” he said quietly.

Anora smiled to herself and moved to bite his earlobe. “Please what?” she asked, letting her hot breath tease into the corners of his ear.

He was silent for a long moment, and once again she wondered whether she had pushed him too far in their pretend. But then he whispered, “Please let me feel your naked breasts press against me.”

In response, she guided his hands to the hem of her shift and moved to sit upright on his hips. While she waited, he gathered the fabric between his fingers, slowly, inch by inch, his hands lingering against her thighs. Finally, when he had all of the excess in his hands, he started raising the fabric — again slowly, again inch by inch — until Anora was ready to scream with the titillating promise of his motion. When he had extended his arms as far as they would go, she leaned forward and then drew back away from the cloth, feeling him move one arm so that he could drop her shift on the floor beside the bed.

“I wish that I could see you,” he whispered while his fingertips traced little circles across her abdomen near her belly button. His hands trailed upward until they were just grazing the bottom edges of her breasts. “What color are your nipples? Are they coral, like the hearts of embrium? Ruby like ripe apples? Cocoa like …” His fingers closed around the taut crest of one breast, pulsing it gently while his opposite hand encompassed the entirety of her other.

“Pink,” Anora gasped.

“Yes,” the templar whispered. “Pink. Like tender lips, and secret promises whispered in the dark.” His fingers continued to stroke and tease her, sending tremors through her body, driving the thrumming between her legs to a more rapid rhythm. “Let me taste them.”

“Yes,” she sighed, placing her hands on either side of his head and leaning toward him. His head turned beneath her, and she could feel the scrape of his unshaven cheek against the already sensitive skin. Then his lips were wrapped around one eager crest, and he suckled it with steady draws of his mouth. She shuddered above him, fisting one hand in his bedding and bringing the other to the back of his head to keep him against her so that he could draw at her with that warm, wet mouth and drive the pulse of her passion into a new, more demanding tempo. Bucking her hips against his abdomen, she tried to locate a pressure that would help that urgent drum beat throb even more quickly, but this portion of his body wasn’t molded hard and firm in the right places. Still, she ground against him, driven by his continued suckling and her body’s throbbing response.

“Oh, Maker,” he groaned when he finally seemed to have had a temporary fill of her nipples. “Your breast are made for my hands and my mouth. You’re perfection.”

She gasped and sighed, wanting so much more, needing to find her completion. Reaching behind her, Anora found that his member was hard and straining toward her, a mirror of her own burning desire. Shifting her hips, she guided him to her heat, sliding onto him until she could feel him seated deep within her body.

“Ah, perfection,” he groaned, the tips of his fingers digging into her buttocks so that he could rise upward to ensure their contact, finalizing their coupling. When he rose, she thrust forward against him, meeting him with her own passion, spiraling in time with him toward that unseeable apex. Just when she thought that she might never topple over the height, he reached up and pinched one of her nipples between his fingers, and the mixture of pain and pleasure sent her over the edge. Mindful of watchers in the halls, she fell forward against him, burying her face in his shoulder and gasping her pleasure into his skin. Clutching her head against him, he moaned his own release, his hips jerking up toward her, driving against her body in his own completion.

The gasping of their breath slowed together, as did the beating of their hearts, until they were able to speak again. Anora held back, not wanting to give anything away, knowing that it was her moment to return to her own rooms and leave this templar to his journeys and the peace that he might be able to find somewhere else. Shifting so that she could slide to his side, she lifted her head from his chest and tried to move away.

“You’re going?” he asked, yawning hugely. His arm clamped her against his body, and the other hand reached out to cup one breast. “If you stay, we could try to comfort each other again.” Turning into her shoulder, he pressed a kiss to her skin and then settled his cheek there.

“I’m afraid that I must. If I’m not in my quarters, I’ll be missed.” Anora smiled at the truth of her words, working to push away the uneasy guilt about having to deceive the templar. But it was for the best of the kingdom. To guarantee the succession. To ensure the peaceful transition to a new ruler after she and Alistair … after …

“Cullen,” he murmured against her shoulder. “Before you go, could you call me ‘Cullen,’ just once? Then, when I remember this night, I might actually be able to convince myself that there was more between us than … than your simplicity.”

“Cullen,” Anora whispered, stroking her fingers through his close-cropped hair.

He yawned. “It would help my memory — and the dreams I will have — if I could know your name, too.”

She swallowed and closed her eyes. One more, momentary lie. It was just a name.

“Nori,” she sighed. “You can call me ‘Nori.’”


	6. What War has Wrought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen travels toward Haven and his new assignment with the Divine. Along the way, he experiences first-hand the effects of the mage-templar war.

Cullen let the horse continue at his own pace, which wasn’t particularly fast or difficult to control, for which the commander was grateful. In the months leading up to the battle at Ostagar, every horse had been conscripted for the army, and afterward, he hadn’t needed one to guard a city like Kirkwall, where everything and everyone was within walking distance. He had loved the horses that he had ridden in the fields around Honnleath, but those intervening years hadn’t ensured that he remembered the skills that he had used as a boy. So he had been grateful when the king’s stable master had provided him with a reliable gelding, sturdy and even-tempered, that seemed perfectly content to plod along the road to Haven at a steady pace unless urged to exert himself by Cullen.

But there was no reason for him to be anywhere faster. The Divine would still be in Haven when he got there, and for all he knew, it would take at least another fortnight for the invited representatives to gather. Or more. If anything, he was certain that no one was in a hurry to be in such a confined — albeit holy — space with the enemies they were currently facing standing just across the hall. It may have been a master stroke on the part of the head of the Chantry: to choose the site where the Hero of Ferelden had discovered the actual sacred ashes that remained from Andraste’s death pyre. The temple had become something of a pilgrimage site for the faithful, drawing its own assortment of merchants and other hangers-on who had revitalized the little village.

At least that was what he had learned from a few fellow templars whom he had questioned after he had made his commitment to Leliana and the Revered Mother. The village had blossomed when pilgrims wandered into it, creating new pathways through the mountains to shorten their trips to worship in the place where their prophet’s ashes rested. Of course, most of the little cottage industries that had arisen had preyed on the faith of those pilgrims, selling them their own tiny vials of “sacred ashes” that were said to be imbued with the healing energies of Andraste herself. Or replicas of the urn to place on their mantlepieces. Or baskets woven from the grasses that grew on the slopes of the mountain, just below the site of the temple. Somehow, through some magical essence steeped into the land, everything that could be bought in Haven was blessed by the prophet herself.

That was what they wanted the faithful to believe, and many did. And perhaps, if Cullen had experienced the temple for himself, he might have felt the same way. But he had never had a chance to make his own pilgrimage … honestly, he hadn’t ever considered the possibility. Of course, he wasn’t an average follower of Andraste and the Maker: he was a templar, sworn to the service of the Chantry, tasked by the words of the prophet herself to be certain that “magic always served man, never ruled over him.”

Of course, there had always been questions about who or what defined service, but there had always been commanders to tell him which choices to make. Most of the time. When they hadn’t been available or even sane … well, he lived with the results of those choices.

Cullen could feel his eyelids drooping. The steady, rocking gait of the horse and the warm rays of the sun that beat down on the top of his head lulled him into a state of drowsy comfort. If he had had a full night of sleep, he might have felt more awake. But he couldn’t guarantee it. His dreams — nightmares, actually — disturbed too many of the hours in his bed, whether it was a hard cot in a templar barracks or a cushioned featherbed like the one he had occupied last night. He usually spent more time staring into the darkness than he did in an unaware unconsciousness, and last night had been no exception.

Until that woman had crawled into his bed.

Nori, he reminded himself. She had told him that he could call her “Nori.”

In a strange way, he was now grateful for her boldness and the intrusion of her soft curves against him in the depths of the night. Perhaps it had been the unusual exertion, or maybe it had simply been her soft admission: that she had caught a glimpse of his brokenness, and it had moved her to compassion. Thinking about it now, he probably should have sent her away, because there were so many reasons why entanglements — even ones based on her simplistic idea of sexual pleasure between two people — were impossible for someone in his position. His duty was solely to the Chantry. He was on his way to a new assignment. He owned nothing more than the items strapped onto the saddle that the king’s stables had also provided.

There was nothing in all of the realities of his life that made him an acceptable spouse. He was a templar. Period. Service was his life.

But his mind continued to wander back to those moments with her, there in the darkness, and the touch of her fingertips on his body.

Unfortunately, those memories made the ride less comfortable, and Cullen found himself shifting uneasily in his saddle. Still, he continued on, determined to travel as far as he could before he found a place for the night.

He kicked the horse into a trot and looked around at the land that surrounded the road. Cradled between gently rolling hills, the surprisingly well-maintained highway was fairly smooth, made of even stones that had been carefully wedged against each other. Many of the railings that would usually divide the king’s through-road from the surrounding farmland or wilderness were little more than piles of rubble today. But that was certainly a project for another afternoon. Even, navigable roads were vital to trade and the deployment of troops. Much more important that decorative railings ever could be.

Looking up into the sky again, Cullen noticed the first golden hints that the day was coming to an end. He scanned the area around him and noticed a little stream that was paralleling the road, a few paces off to the north. Guiding his horse through a low break in the wall, he followed the flow upstream and into a little grove of trees where he dismounted. Leading his horse deeper into the woods, farther beside the stream, he looked for a likely place to bed down for the night, knowing that his steady pace had done nothing to get him to a town with a Chantry or inn where he could sleep in a bed for the night.

Eventually, he found a likely spot with just enough of a flat, sandy area for a simple campfire and his bedroll. He hobbled the horse, stripping off the saddle, his packs, and the bridle and left him to graze on the available growth on the forest floor. After arranging his things and unrolling his bedding, he rose and moved out among the trees to find wood for a fire.

It was the horse’s tense whicker that alerted him that something was wrong. The small pile of dried sticks tumbled from his arms when Cullen drew his sword and moved cautiously yet swiftly between the trees, using their moss-covered trunks as hiding places on his path. The ground was deeply padded with fallen leaves, so his footfalls were muffled, as long as he was fairly careful with the placement of his booted feet. Finally, he was able to see the horse’s hindquarters, and he crept slowly in a circle around the animal, looking for the reason for the horse’s whinny and the continuing stamping and snorting.

Coming around to the head, Cullen finally saw a small figure crouched at the horse’s forefeet, working at the binding for the hobble. Between the horse’s reluctance to allow a stranger to touch his legs and the individual’s own inexperience with the device, the attempt to unbind the horse and lead him away was failing miserably.

“Ho, there,” Cullen called, stepping into the clearing with his sword pointed toward the ground. “Is there a problem with horse’s hobble? It’s been many years since I used one, but I hadn’t thought that I’d forgotten how.”

During this little speech, the figure gasped and reached out to clutch the fingers of one hand around a short staff that appeared to have been intricately carved by a master woodworker. Instinctively, Cullen prepared to battle against magic and brought both hands together on the hilt of his sword.

“I wasn’t …” the bedraggled human said uncertainly. “I didn’t mean to …”

“I understand if you were surprised by the sight of an actual horse,” he continued, trying to defuse the situation swiftly by making a joke of the whole thing. “It’s been quite a few years for me, too. I just want to warn you that the front and the back are the most dangerous parts.”

As if to confirm Cullen’s warning, the horse bared his teeth and flattened his ears against his head, lunging suddenly toward the person who was warily watching the templar. The motion startled the youngster so much that he or she tumbled to one side, dropping the staff and rolling away from the threatening animal as quickly as possible. Stepping across the clearing in a few long strides, Cullen put one booted foot on the staff and pointed the sharp end of his sword at the person who had tried to steal his horse.

“You should get up now and explain to me what’s going on,” he said, still trying to sound reasonable, even though he was beginning to simmer with his unexpressed anger. “Who are you, and why were you trying to steal my horse?”

The unkempt stranger stared up at him, long strands of greasy black hair hanging across the haggard face. Cullen almost felt a moment of pity for the youngster who was obviously experiencing some kind of hardship, but the staff made him think twice. Mages often brought it on themselves, after all.

“I wasn’t doing anything to your horse, ser.”

Cullen sighed and bent to retrieve the staff from the ground. “I hope that you’re not trying to suggest that I ignore the evidence of my own eyes. At the very least, you were trying to free my horse from his hobble, and that would have left me in exactly the same place as if you had stolen him.”

The bedraggled person frowned and dragged fingers across the dirty forehead, forcing the strands of hair away from his or her gaze. A pair of smoky gray eyes stared up at him, and Cullen was able to see the sunken hollows of the stranger’s cheeks and the clear pattern of bones visible through the skin. Perhaps because of Nori’s compassion the night before, he felt sorry of the youngster, and he tentatively dropped his sword point toward the ground.

“As long as you don’t steal my horse, I have no argument with you,” he said, sliding his sword into its sheath. “You’re free to leave, if you so desire, but I had planned to cook myself some dinner. I might be able to extend it enough to feed the both of us.” Cullen thrust his sword out behind him by leaning on the pommel where it rested against his side. “As long as you don’t steal my horse.”

The stranger sighed and struggled upright. While Cullen watched, the skeletal body swayed as if even the act of standing was a challenge. “Could I have my staff back, ser? I need it for my balance.”

The templar frowned. “I’m not certain that would be the wisest action for me at the moment. There is a war going on, you know, and one of the sides wields magic with staffs.”

“It happens to be what got me in this position.”

“Because you’re a mage?”

The stranger shook his or her head. “Because I use a staff.”

Cullen snorted and took a step closer to the youngster. “I tell you what,” he said, trying once again to sound as reasonable as possible, “I’ll help you back to my campsite and let you think about what you’re going to do. If you want to leave, I’ll give you back the staff and wish you the Maker’s blessing. If you’re going to stay, you can have it back in the morning when we go our separate ways.”

The stranger frowned and stared down at the grass between them for a few moments. “Fine. If you’ll give me your arm …”

Gripping the staff with the hand that was farthest away from the suspected mage, Cullen patiently guided their steps back to the place where he had left his gear and helped the youngster slide down beside his saddle and packs. “There are a few tins of biscuits in my pack there that you’re welcome to start on. The Chantry always insists that we be supplied with them, but I hate the things.”

“Thank you, ser,” the stranger gasped, dragging the pack closer and tugging the flap open. While Cullen watched, the youngster dragged the despised container of biscuits from inside and eagerly opened it, stuffing at least three of the foul things between his or her eager teeth. Cullen shook his head and went off to find his abandoned pile of firewood, the staff still clenched in one hand.

It was a mechanical process, one that he had refreshed during his escape from Kirkwall: preparing the space for the fire, gathering the wood, striking the flint and steel until a spark caught on the dry tinder. There was something soothing to Cullen in the actions, even if he was performing for an unimpressed audience of one. By the time that he had managed to get a fire started and a pot boiling for some of the dried supplies that he had brought with him, the stranger had devoured one entire tin of biscuits. Knowing the effect of them on his own system, he fetched a cup of water from the stream and offered it to the youngster.

“Thanks. I can see why you hate them.”

“But you haven’t had food in … what? … two weeks or more? When was your last meal?”

“Just before I … before the …”

Cullen sighed again and stirred the pot with a long, wooden spoon. “Was it templars or mages?”

The stranger slowly clenched and unclenched hands that were scratched and scarred. “Both. The mages were certain that I should join them, simply because of my staff. And the templars wanted to kill me because of it.”

“How did you escape?” he asked while he scooped a bit of the food into a small earthenware plate and handed it to the youngster.

He or she shrugged. “I’m not certain. I … I just started not being where people wanted me to be. I hid in a lot of … horrible places. A cave. A hollow log. A … a mass grave near a battlefield.”

“What’s your name, son?” Cullen said gently, placing another scoop of food on the plate.

“Samyule.”

“How many of your brothers and sisters have been taken away by the templars, Samyule?”

The boy started and unwillingly stopped shoveling food into his mouth. “You didn’t say anything about having to answer questions if I was going to share your meal, ser.”

Cullen shrugged. “You can keep your secrets. I don’t need them. But if you want your staff back, I would prefer to know whether I’m going to end up frozen into a block of ice for my troubles. It might make relieving yourself in the middle of the night a little easier for you.”

Sighing, Samyule pushed the food on his plate around with his fingers until finally he seemed to make a decision. “My family has never had a mage in it for all the generations that have been recorded at the Chantry, ser.”

Nodding, Cullen rose from his place beside the fire and walked over to where the boy was sitting. He extended his hand, the one with the staff in it, and released it when Samyule reached out to accept the piece of wood that he used to help him walk. Returning to his place by the fire, Cullen scooped some of his meal into his mouth and chewed slowly.

“You’re going to simply take my word for it?” the boy asked him, tucking the staff up against his body as if he was used to it being exactly right there. The gesture, more than anything else, reassured the templar that he had made the right choice, but he could still feel that little, worried nagging at the back of his mind, his own paranoia about every personal interaction that he ever had had, did have, or would have. But he forced those thoughts away, trying instead to trust the other small voice that reminded him of the goodness of humanity.

“I’ll take your word for it,” the templar replied, taking another bite and chewing it thoughtfully. “At some point in this insanity, someone is going to have to start accepting that someone else is capable of telling the truth.” The boy nodded and started scooping the food into his mouth again. When the plate was empty, Samyule held it out toward Cullen, but the templar shook his head. “If you haven’t eaten in as long as I believe, son, you’d better take it a little more slowly than you’d probably like. Try some more water, instead.”

Samyule slowly rose to his feet, leaning heavily on the staff while he hobbled down to the stream and refilled the cup that Cullen had given him. Watching from the corner of his eyes, the templar studied the limp that the boy walked with, trying to determine whether it was fake or not. He couldn’t be certain, but he had already determined to give Samyule the benefit of the doubt.

The boy turned toward him and started up the little slope when suddenly an arrow sprouted from his throat. Clutching at the stream of red that started running down his neck, Samyule fell to his knees, the staff tumbling into the water of the stream with a gentle splash.

Cullen was on his feet in an instant, his sword in his hands, turning to face the direction where the arrow had come from and moving toward whoever was there. After two long strides, he saw a pair of armored templars that he didn’t recognize slipping between the trees toward him.

“Who are you?” one of the other templars called. “Put your sword away and tell us who you are.”

“Commander Cullen Rutherford, late of the garrison at Kirkwall, reassigned by the Revered Mother of the Chantry in Denerim. I’m on my way to my new posting. Why did you kill that boy?”

“Lower your sword,” the other templar called. “You were in the company of that mage. We have our orders, and we will follow them, whether you’re a templar or not.”

“No. I’m a commander in the templars. Lower your weapons or be reported to your superiors. Now tell me why you killed that boy.”

One of the other templars laughed. “There are two of us, Commander.” The emphasis on the last word was sarcastic, and Cullen could feel his temper rising. “That boy, as you call him, was a dangerous mage who has been eluding lawful capture by our order. We could thank you, I suppose, since you distracted him enough that we were able to kill him.”

“What proof did you have? How did you know he was a mage?”

“He carried a staff, didn’t he?”

The words, so casually tossed between them, snapped Cullen’s patient hold on his self control. Striding to the nearest templar, he swung his sword, severing the man’s hand from his body so that the bow that was still in his grip fell useless to the ground. With his second swing, he sliced into the opening where the man’s breastplate was much too loosely strapped together, back to front, watching as the man slid down into the sand. Turning to the second templar, he beat his sword against the other man’s, pushing him back into the trees until the templar tripped over a fallen log and landed on his back in the long grasses. Stepping to stand over him, Cullen lowered the tip of his sword to the man’s throat.

“Explain to me again why that boy needed to die? What questioning did you use? How long was he in your care before he escaped? Did you actually see him doing any magic? At all?”

When the templar shook his head, Cullen sighed and thrust his sword forward under the bottom edge of the helmet. He could see the other man’s eyes widen and heard the gurgling of the blood rushing from the gash. Turning away, he trotted over to where Samyule was lying on the ground in a slowly expanding pool of red. Reaching out, he took one of the boy’s hands in his own and squeezed it tightly. The smoky gray eyes stared up at him, blinked twice, and then a small smile lifted the corners of Samyule’s mouth.

“Thank you,” the boy whispered and then sagged, lifeless, onto the sand.


	7. Other Uses for a War Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora joins the king and his advisors, including Eamon Guerrin, to discuss how to deal with the mages who have taken over Redcliffe. But Alistair has different ideas as to what the table in a war room is actually made for ...

Inhaling deeply, Anora fought against the anxiety that roiled in her stomach, trying to ease her tension before she stepped from her chambers. It was bad enough that the war between the mages and the templars was now being waged in Ferelden — honestly, the conflict covered all of southern Thedas. And each faction was seizing areas for themselves, as if holding land that didn’t belong to them was somehow going to legitimize their claims or strengthen their ability to gather and support more members among their ranks. In truth, it simply made each group more of a target for the actual military forces of the kingdoms that they were using for their battlefields.

And then there were those green, swirling rents in the Veil between the real world and the realm of spirits or dreams. On an alarmingly regular basis, they spewed forth unnatural reminders of what awaited them all in that other land, the land of dreams and demons and magic. The land that the mages regularly borrowed from for their work and that the templars had been tasked with protecting the normal citizenry from — in any peaceful time. But it was war now, mages and templars facing each other with distrust and animosity with the usual, bloody results.

What was worse was that her attempt to secure the succession had failed.

It had only been one attempt, she tried to argue with herself. If she had only had more chances, more time with the templar, she might have eventually succeeded. Of course, more interactions with Cullen Rutherford would only have made the risk of her identity being exposed to him a greater certainty. But it was a risk that she was willing to take. There were ways that she could deal with one templar who might think that he could defame his queen.

Especially after the succession was assured.

She inhaled deeply and stared at the door that would take her into the hallway and down to the war room, where Alistair, his advisors, and his generals were waiting for her. Schooling her face into a reflection of calm that she was far from feeling, she pulled the door open and stepped into the hall.

To her surprise, there were no guards waiting for her.

Instead, Mi’Nehn stood in front of her door and turned quickly when she heard it open. Anora met her eyes in surprise and then fell into step beside her, trying to keep her footfalls even and dignified, even as her heart thundered in anticipation of the news that the elf must have for her.

“The Inquisition moves to deal with the problem of the mages in Redcliff, your majesty,” the elf said in a soft murmur that Anora had to strain to hear.

“I see,” she replied. “And where do they get the license to act on Ferelden soil?”

Mi’Nehn shrugged. “They seem to believe that the tear in the sky gives them the right to deal with all issues surrounding the death of the Divine and the war. Thus their incursion into Ferelden.”

Anora sighed. For perhaps the thousandth time since she had assumed the throne, she wondered where the laws of her kingdom began and ended and where the Chantry held greater sway. It wasn’t that religious leaders regularly interfered in Ferelden politics; in fact, they were usually pretty good about providing succor to the faithful and allowing the landed houses and the monarchy to decide what to do with the rest of the kingdom. But there was something … limiting … in the idea that there was another organization in her kingdom with at least as much as an influence over her people as she and the king had.

It was equally true that — from what Mi’Nehn had gathered through her own intelligence networks — the armies of Ferelden had no effective tools for dealing with tears in the sky. Certainly a squadron of soldiers could be armed and dispatched to troublesome areas, but it was merely a bandage on a gaping wound. Only the Inquisitor and his greenly glowing hand seemed to have the power to finally separate the two worlds back into the positions where Anora expected to find them. It was a knife blade edge that she and Alistair had to balance on, because they had yet to be able to negotiate directly with any representative of the newly founded Inquisition.

“Is there more?” Anora whispered, dreading the answer, but knowing that she would only hear this information again when she was with the king and his advisors in the war room.

“A leagues-wide rent has opened above Crestwood in northern Ferelden, and there are reports of more minor tears throughout the wilderness. In addition, a faction of templars have claimed an ancient keep in the south. There may or may not be a legitimate claim to the lands, but …”

“It’s immaterial at this point. I understand.”

They took a few steps together in silence, until Anora finally stopped and turned to look the elven woman directly in the eyes. It was strange to the queen that she had been able to understand when the assassin was holding something back, especially after so few years together. Then again, Mi’Nehn was so well trained in the arts of subterfuge and deception, it was likely that she hesitated simply to give Anora the opportunity to prepare herself and formulate the questions that she would ask.

This time, however, instead of asking, the queen simply lifted an eyebrow. The elf took half a step closer and lowered her voice even more.

“It’s reported that, because of a general familiarity with the area, the templar will accompany the Inquisitor to Redcliffe to deal with the mages.”

Anora’s eyes widened in surprise. Maker bless her, an opportunity!

“Are you certain? This isn’t just a rumor?”

Mi’Nehn nodded slightly and stepped back. “I understand that he is traveling for logistical purposes, but he will be there. It appears that he will not actually be part of the peace talks, but his presence seems to reassure the Inquisitor in some way. He is part of an exclusive inner circle that has formed in the organization.”

Anora clasped her hands together in front of her and squeezed her fingers tightly. “You will prepare,” she instructed softly. “I’ll convince the king that we both need to appear in Redcliffe. A united front against the presumption of the Inquisition.”

“You wish for me to accompany you, of course,” the elf said. “And Hana?”

“That should be adequate,” Anora agreed. “It’s not as if we’ll be going on a grand progression or visiting every arldom on the way. It will practically be a forced march to Redcliffe.”

“An earlier arrival would send a stronger message to the representatives of the Inquisition, your majesty,” Mi’Nehn suggested. “I will arrange everything.”

Reaching out a hand, Anora placed it on the assassin’s arm. “Quietly. Suspicion will spread like wildfire in the castle.”

“Of course, your majesty,” the elf replied, dipping into a brief curtsey and moving down the corridor in the opposite direction. Anora watched her go for a moment and then looked around her to get her bearings. To her surprise, she was standing at the foot of the staircase that would lead her directly to the war room on the floor above. Sighing in gratitude, she mounted the stairs at her slow, regal pace.

After the guards had opened the wide, double doors, Anora stood on the threshold for a moment, letting her eyes and her mind adjust to the room. Because the castle had suffered in the war with the Archdemon — and because of the demands of that battle — the room had specifically been rebuilt to support those who would plan Ferelden’s future conflicts. With that in mind, the room was almost detached from this floor of the castle and had three walls completely made of glass that bathed the room with a brilliant, golden light when the sun was shining. A rough-hewn, wooden ladder stood in one corner and led to a hatch that would let anyone who needed to survey the lands around Denerim access to the even taller watchtower that had been added above the chamber. The center of the room was filled with a long wooden table, sturdy and dependable, and when she looked at the surface, Anora could see a variety of maps spread across it, with molded iron and brass weights sitting along the edges to hold them open.

“… no time, your majesty,” his advisor, Eamon, was saying urgently, his hands spread on the table and his weight pressing toward where the king was standing.

“There is always time to wait for the queen,” Alistair replied. When he heard the doors latch closed again, he looked toward her and smiled. “You see,” he teased his advisor while he crossed to take both of her hands in his own, “the queen is always exactly where she is needed exactly when she is needed.”

She blinked uncertainly at him, a little touched by his defense of her. To be sure, he had done it before: he was always insistent that their rule was a collaboration of equals, each with strengths that supported the other. But in all their time together, he had never defended her from the comments of his "Uncle" Eamon. While she watched him, grateful that his wide shoulders blocked her face from the view of the king’s advisors, Anora pasted a small smile on her face, but it widened quite naturally when Alistair lifted both of her hands to his lips. He turned away finally, but kept one of her hands and tucked it into the crook of his arm. Matching his steady pace, Anora accompanied him back to his place at the table and quickly scanned the maps and other scraps of paper. Reaching out, she took a report between her fingers and read it while the men resumed their argument.

After their discussion had circled back to the beginning — the fact that Eamon and Teagan were upset that their home had been stolen by renegade mages — Anora decided it was time for her to step into the breach.

“Are we the only hope for the village?” she asked softly, returning the missives to their neat little stack in front of her.

“There are reports that the Inquisition moves toward Redclilffe. They may be traveling to parlay with the mages to add them to their cause.” The general who delivered this news did it with such a sour look on his face that Anora wondered idly whether his breakfast had agreed with him. “But we have no way of knowing their intentions, because they have yet to approach the rightful government of Ferelden to have any of their actions approved.”

“How close are the Inquisition forces to the village?” Anora asked.

Eamon frowned at her, as if he had mentioned these details before — or perhaps had forgotten to mention them. Tipping her head to one side, she lifted one eyebrow and waited for him to speak.

“There are no Inquisition forces going to Redcliffe. The Inquisitor moves with a small group of followers, from what we can gather.”

Alistair slid into the chair that was pulled next to the table for him and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Does this mean that there is no actual army moving on Redcliffe to ensure that the village is reclaimed? If the Inquisitor simply hoping that he will restore peace by negotiation, he is being slightly naïve, don’t you think?”

“Removing the threat of what the mages can do from Redcliffe might reduce the fear of the people in the area,” Anora said slowly. “But it isn’t going to stop what the renegade templars have been doing. Only an army — some show of military strength — will speak to them. Wouldn’t you say that was true, your majesty?”

She said the last to Alistair and turned to look at him, but he seemed to be staring fixedly at something … some portion of her anatomy … that only he could see when he was sitting behind her. When his eyes finally lifted, she frowned at him, but he smiled back benignly and nodded his head.

“The templars should respond to an appeal to their duty,” he ventured.

“If they’re at all in their right minds,” Eamon commented sarcastically. “And from some of the reports that we’ve received, we can’t be certain that that will be true.”

“So are you sending troops to Redcliffe or not, your majesty?” Eamon asked, his hands opening and closing at his sides. “Because all of this talking isn’t getting me … Teagan … any closer to having our ancestral home back.”

“It might be wiser,” Anora said slowly, trying to keep her own excitement from leaking into her voice, “if there was a stronger show of our commitment. We may need a moment to show this Inquisition that Ferelden will not simply accept its dictates without question.”

“I’m certain your father would have felt that way, your majesty,” Eamon said testily. “Despite the fact that the Divine was Orlesian, it doesn’t mean that she had designs on taking over our kingdom. There’s no reason to fall into Loghain’s paranoia in this instance.”

Anora could feel her spine stiffen, and she ground her teeth together in order to keep herself from saying the first words that flew into her mind. Pushing her rage into some other part of her mind, she was about to speak when she heard Alistair’s chair squeak and felt a hand in the middle of her back. She turned her head and met her husband’s eyes, seeing the concern that was plain on his face.

“Eamon,” Alistair said, his hand lingering on her back, “you are speaking to your queen and my wife. Her suggestion was perfectly reasonable: the Inquisition must know that they have presumed by moving into Ferelden without consulting us. It has nothing to do with any suspicions connected to the Orlesian throne or the Divine. It has to do with the sovereignty of our kingdom in the whole of Thedas.”

“What do you suggest then, your majesty?” Eamon ground out between his teeth, obviously feeling the sting of Alistair’s very mild rebuke.

“I suggest that the queen and I ride to Redcliffe in front of the army and have our own conversation with the Inquisitor.”

Anora gasped. When the words escaped his lips, she got the sensation that he had read her mind. Meeting his eyes, she let her surprise show, knowing it was much wiser to let him think that she had questions about his decision than that she supported it wholeheartedly.

“You disapprove,” he said, pressing his hand into her back and leaning close to her ear.

She shook her head slightly. “I was only concerned, your majesty,” she lied quickly. “Are you certain we should travel together? Wouldn’t it be safer if you were to go alone? Shouldn’t I remain in Denerim for the good of the kingdom?”

“Eamon?” he questioned, glancing quickly at his advisor. “The queen has doubts as to the wisdom of my recommendation. What can you say to reassure her?”

Eamon frowned at him. “Me? Nothing! She’s right. It’s unsafe for you both to go to Redcliffe to deal with the insanity of a few rogue mages.”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with mages,” Alistair admitted. “I would worry about the queen, but she had demonstrated to me that she is perfectly capable in quite a few ways and in many different situations. And I believe that it would demonstrate to our people how committed we both are to a peaceful conclusion to these events. That we both are concerned about the incursion of the Inquisition into Ferelden.”

“That we care,” Anora said softly. Raising her eyes to his, she smiled gently at him, but the grin froze on her lips when the hand that Alistair had let linger on her back slid down to the curve of her buttocks. He winked with the eye that was on the side away from Eamon and squeezed his fingertips into her rear.

“That we care,” Alistair repeated. “There could be no greater reason for us to visit Redcliffe — together — than that, Eamon. Make the arrangements. We leave at dawn.”

The counselors muttered together and shuffled on their feet, but eventually they began to gather their things and wander from the war room. Alistair followed them with Anora trailing slightly behind him, until they were all out the door. When the room was empty, he slid the locks closed and started back across the room toward her.

“What are you doing, Alistair?” Anora asked suspiciously. “We both have other duties …”

“Ever since you walked through these doors,” he said, advancing ever closer, “I have been thinking about only one thing.”

“It’s the middle of the day, your majesty,” she gasped.

He stared at her in mock horror. “I wasn’t thinking of that! What a scandalous thought!”

Anora frowned at him until he suddenly scooped her into his arms and deposited her onto the flat surface of the war room table. Crossing to his chair, he sat down in it and looked over at her, a suggestive smile playing at his lips.

“Dance for me,” he requested in a quiet voice.

“What? I don’t know any …”

“It doesn’t matter how. Dance for me, Anora.”

She studied his face for a moment and then scanned his body, seeing the telltale stirring of his manhood behind the fabric of his trousers. Rising to her feet, she walked down the table and stopped in front of him. After she had extended one foot, she gracefully bent over to remove her slipper and then thought better of it. Instead, she turned so that her rear was toward him and repeated the motion, sliding one finger into the edge of her slipper and dragging it from her foot. She heard Alistair groan behind her and straightened slowly, looking over her shoulder to see the longing that was plain on her husband’s face. Rotating in a slow circle, she stopped when she was facing away from him again and bent to remove her other slipper.

“I must say, your majesty,” Alistair muttered from his chair, “you have the most luscious bottom of any woman that I have ever met.”

“I had thought that this would be a demonstration without comment, ser,” she replied, tangling her fingers in the skirts of her dress so that she could slide it up to reveal the curves of her ankles and calves. “Otherwise, I may have to reconsider your request.”

Alistair groaned again and slid one hand across the front of his trousers. But he also nodded briefly and stretched out his legs, crossing his booted feet and looking up at her expectantly.

Anora started moving again, thinking through all of those hours of training by the dancing masters that had been brought in by the Chantry sisters to educate her in the things that their reflections on the Chant of Light didn’t cover. Ferelden dances were enthusiastic romps, not at all appropriate for the kind of enticing that Alistair wanted from her. Luckily, her teachers had included the languid, formal steps of some of the dances used at the Orlesian court, and Anora quickly adapted them to the seduction of her own husband. Because his eyes wouldn’t leave her and he couldn’t stop the moans of pleasure that escaped his lips, she continued, driven by the pleasure that filled her at seeing and hearing the evidence of his desire. She dipped and spun, making certain that he could see the press of her buttocks against the fabric of her dress when she rotated. In turn, she slipped her stockings from her legs, dropping them across Alistair’s booted ankles and watching as he lunged forward to clutch them between his fingers. Slowly, so very, very slowly, she inched her dress upward until the entirety of her legs were exposed.

“Take it off,” Alistair gasped, one of his hands clenching around the wooden arm of his chair. He shifted in his seat, as if he were trying to ease a discomfort that wouldn’t end.

Instead of obeying him, Anora dropped the hem of her dress and hid her legs from his sight.

“No!” he moaned. “What have you done?”

“You were to be silent,” she explained reasonably. “If you can’t follow the rules …”

He growled deep in his throat. “You’re going to kill me, Anora,” he gasped. “I can’t sit here, with this fire burning inside of me and not express it. I’ll expire from my passion alone if I can’t give it voice.”

At his comment, Anora felt a tingling begin inside of her own body. She was surprised that his words had stimulated her so forcefully, and she embraced the stirring of her own desire. It was that sense of power again, her longing for control in that moment that drove her on, and she slipped the buttons on her sleeves from their loops. Twisting in front of her husband, she loosened the bindings for the shoulders of her dress and slid it forward to bare her upper body. Clutching the fabric across her chest she turned and bent forward in front of Alistair’s eyes, pressing her arm more tightly against herself so that her breasts would bulge above the edge of her now open neckline.

Unable to control himself any longer, Alistair shoved to his feet and strode closer to the table, but Anora simply took a step backward. She continued to slither against the fabric of her dress, allowing it to slide across her skin while she danced across the top of the table, always keeping a section of the wood between herself and her lust-filled husband. Finally, she let the fabric slip from her body, pooling around her feet so that she was standing in her breast binding and underpants in the center of the table. Driven by some unnameable, internal motivation, she closed her eyes and started moving again, trailing the fingers of one hand across the inner curve of her thigh while the other stroked the tip of one breast until the nipple strained against the fabric that still covered it. Wrapping her fingers in the closure, she tugged it open and let it slither across her body to join her dress and shoes.

In that moment, she was wrapped entirely in the sensations that she was creating inside of herself, so she didn’t notice when she was just a bit too close to the edge. She knew she had made a mistake when Alistair’s hand closed around her ankle and then he reached out his other hand to tangle his fingers in the fabric of her underpants. Tugging at the fabric, he drew her closer, dragging the material down her legs and throwing it across the room while he buried his face against the lower curves of her body. She could feel him inhale deeply; then he wrapped his arms around her legs and lifted her against him. Letting her slide down his body, he gently laid her across the war room table, pressing her thighs apart with the hardness of his own body.

She felt him fumble with the closure of his trousers and then he thrust into her, his hands wrapped around her hips to keep her from sliding on the even surface of the table. Lifting her thighs, she wrapped them around his waist, writhing against him to match the steady drive of his thrusts. Her hands wrapped around his wrists, using them to increase her leverage until his hands left her hips and cupped her breasts. Gasping at the sudden contact, she drove into him, shivering at the ripples of pleasure that spread out from the heat between her thighs.

“Please,” she whispered desperately.

“Please what, wife?” Alistair gasped. “Tell me. What shall I do for your pleasure?”

Pressing her arm across her eyes, Anora gasped at the stab of excitement that raced through her. “Now, Alistair,” she begged. “Fill me with your seed. Fill me now.”

He moaned above her, dropping forward so that he could wrap his lips around one of her nipples. Drawing it into his mouth in a manner that was not at all gentle, he sucked it while his hips slammed into her. Within moments, she was shattering, breaking into pieces of pleasure that throbbed through her in wave after wave. After he had released her nipple, Alistair grunted and pulsed inside of her, spilling himself into her body with satisfied gasps and moans. Anora pulled him close with her legs, holding him against her until the tremors in his body stilled and then allowing him to step away and adjust his clothing.

Standing next to her, he let his eyes trail across her body, studying her in the light that spilled in through the three walls of windows. Anora was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed by her position, her exposure across the surface of the table, when she saw Alistair smile.

“I will never look at this table in the same way again, your majesty,” he smirked. “I suddenly find that I have a completely new appreciation of this conflict between the mages and the templars. Yes, a new appreciation …”


	8. A Tent and a Bedroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen travels with the Inquisitor to deal with the mages who have taken over Redcliffe Village and Castle. Of course, he wasn't expecting the King of Ferelden to arrive at the head of an army, and he wasn't expecting a visit to his tent in the middle of the night.
> 
> Cameo appearances by The Iron Bull and Krem.

Skirting the edges of Redcliffe Village, Cullen tried his best to avoid any other individual who might be lurking in the darkness on this side of the little town. For him, it had been more than enough to have traveled with the Inquisitor and to have been so close to where the Tower of Magi had once risen, tall and forbidding, from the waters of Lake Calenhad. That had been more than enough.

And then everything else had happened. The Inquisitor and his party lost and then reappearing out of nowhere; the exposure of a Tevinter magister; dark, vague hints that there was more here than any of them suspected.

And then King Alistair Theirin had shown up at the head of a heavily armed military force — not the entire Ferelden army, of course, but a significant group of seasoned soldiers and their commanders. 

As if dealing with the mages hadn’t been enough.

As if dealing with a Tevinter magister who had entrapped every mage in Redcliffe into slavery hadn’t been enough.

As if the Inquisitor disappearing hadn’t been enough.

Perhaps the only good thing to have come out of the events in Redcliffe was that he had been so deeply involved in the plans for relocating the mages to Haven that he had been able to avoid the pomp and ceremony of dealing with the king and his advisors. Besides, from what he had heard from those who had been in the room, the Ferelden monarch had used this opportunity to express his displeasure with the steps that the Inquisition had been forced to take to deal with the rents in the sky and the war between the templars and the mages. The negotiations to remove the mages from Redcliffe only marginally appeased the royal temper, but Cullen knew that he wouldn’t have had the patience for the cajoling and reasoning it would have taken to convince the king that what they did was necessary for all of Thedas. So in the end, it was lucky that he had been somewhere else completely, dealing with his own group of self-serving, self-obsessed individuals.

It had been its own challenge: listening to the mages’ representative expound on a long list of demands for their service to the Inquisition. Many times during the process, he had been afraid that he would bite clean through his tongue when he had held himself back from a comment that would have been considered insulting or demeaning to the self-professed power of the mages. For some reason, they still believed that they held the upper hand, that somehow, they were the only answer to … to something that the Inquisition needed. Cullen knew that they could contribute — there were many ways that many people could contribute to the challenges of peace and stability in Thedas. Only another piece in a larger puzzle — that’s all the mages were. There would be other groups that they would add in the future, other people with skills and talents that would be equally as useful as what those who could wield magic brought to the Inquisition.

But still, they were useful. And the Inquisitor had chosen them.

Over the templars.

It still stung when Cullen thought about it. He had tried to give his best arguments as to why the templars would be superior to the mages in the shadow war that they were only just now discovering. During the conversation, he had felt himself teetering on the edge of his personal madness, holding back the things that he couldn’t say because of what they would reveal about him. As a templar who had failed twice. As a boy who had begged for an entire tower full of mages to be wiped from the face of the world. As a man who had betrayed his commander in the face of her own madness. There was only so much that he could say that wouldn’t lay his soul bare in front of the Inquisitor and every person who had stood there around the counsel table.

Maybe Leliana understood his brokenness. She certainly was the only person in his life now who had actually seen it. In many ways, he was grateful that she was so tight-lipped, guided by her positions as both Left Hand of the Divine and now as spy mistress to the Inquisition. He knew that she wouldn’t betray his failures to the others, unless there was a true need.

Unless he failed the Inquisition in some way.

Cullen swallowed hard and stopped, staring down at the barely visible ground at his feet. The moon had crested above the hills that cradled the village safely above Lake Calenhad, and the light shimmered across the water like a pathway into another world. But he ignored it, studying the dirt at his feet instead, grateful to the illumination for making his path back to his tent easier.

It would be the easiest thing that he had done in the entire day; maybe even in the last few weeks.

“Commander!” a voice called to him from one of the fires that burned in the center of the circles of other tents. “Come and join us!”

Cullen looked over to where one of the newer members of the Inquisition was lounging with his crew of misfits. He had asked to be called “The Iron Bull” as if it were a kind of official title or something, and he had brought a number of … interesting … characters along with him. Even though the Inquisitor had welcomed the group into Haven, Cullen still had his doubts. Which he kept to himself, of course.

The Qunari lifted something that looked remarkably like a rusted watering can and tipped whatever was contained inside it into his mouth. “There’s plenty for you, commander,” the Iron Bull continued. “Pull up a piece of ground, and we’ll get you a … Krem, is there a cup for the commander?”

“How should I know? I’m smart enough to bring my own,” the Bull’s second-in-command complained in his gruff voice.

The Qunari laughed and lifted the watering can again. “So am I! What about it, commander? Do you have a mug on you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Cullen called in return, tugging at the shoulder of his cloak. “And I’ve had quite enough for today. I’ll wish you a good night, if you don’t mind.”

The Iron Bull waved dismissively. “Some people have their priorities right,” he replied, “and then there are people like the commander.”

The group of soldiers around the Qunari laughed, except for Krem, who rolled his eyes and smiled apologetically at Cullen. Nodding, the commander turned to where his tent was set up, just a few long strides across the clearing, and tossed the flap to one side so that he could enter it.

He sighed as he eased his cloak from his shoulders, dropping it in the corner and across to the little stool that he knew was there. Reaching up, he started unbuckling the straps that held his breastplate together when he heard a noise coming from deeper in the tent. He paused, staring into the darkness, but it was so complete that he couldn’t see anything.

“Who’s there?” he said softly, not wanting anyone to think that he was paranoid if there actually wasn’t anyone there.

“Cullen?” a soft voice replied, and he could hear the rustling of fabric, as if someone had risen from his bedroll.

“Nori?” he asked, recognizing the husky contralto that had haunted so many of his dreams. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you want me to go away?” she asked with a little tremor in her voice. “I had thought that …”

“No, no,” he answered, taking a step closer to where he thought she must be standing. “I just meant … Maker take it, where are you? I can’t see anything in the dark.”

Her warm chuckle crossed the space between them. “Hold your arms out in front of you, and I’ll find you.”

He did as he was told, and soon his fingertips brushed against soft fabric that had been warmed by the flesh wearing it. Slipping into his embrace, Nori pressed herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and moving tightly against him. Unsurprisingly, his body reacted immediately, especially when she reached up and pressed kisses across his face until their lips met. Her mouth opened to the gentle exploration of his tongue, and he delved deeply into the honeyed warmth. Sliding her arms from his waist, she twined them around his neck and ran her fingers up through his hair.

“Maker, Nori,” he gasped when he finally lifted his mouth from hers. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” she replied, running one fingertip across the curve of his ear. “Unless you would prefer to skip this introductory activity.”

He groaned deep in his chest, trapping the sound in the little space between them. Now that she was here, he knew that he needed to protect her reputation and her standing with the royal household. He must remain silent if he was going to keep her safe from the sidelong glances and whispered innuendo of the other members of the Inquisition. “How long can you be away?” he asked, trailing kisses across her cheek. A sudden realization struck him, and he raised his head in surprise. “How did you get here? Are you traveling with the king?” He could feel her moving, but he couldn’t tell what motion she had made. “Was that a nod or a shake?”

“A shake,” she whispered, humor lightening the tone of her voice. “I’m here with the queen. She asked for me to accompany her.”

“And you were determined to take advantage of it?” His lips slid across the curve of her throat until they found the place where her neck met her shoulder. He would have continued his exploration, but the fabric of the high neckline of her dress deterred him.

“I had thought to … to renew our acquaintance. And to offer you what comfort I could.”

“As simple as that, then,” he laughed softly, and she chuckled in reply.

“Much simpler if you weren’t still wearing your clothing, ser. Would you like me to help you remove it? And your armor?”

“Maker, no!” he exploded angrily, choking his voice back so as not to draw attention to his tent. “I don’t need you to wait on me, Nori, even if you are a servant.”

But at that same time, one of her hands slipped from around his neck and moved between them so that she could run it across the muscles of his thighs. Her fingers circled around, coming perilously close to his already hardening manhood, making that portion of his anatomy jump and quiver in eager anticipation. Cullen ground his teeth together to keep himself from groaning his pleasure into the tent, and he bent to capture the woman’s lips with his own. Standing there in the darkness, he felt as if he had been wrapped in a spell that kept him from moving, desiring only that Nori should not take her hand away from his body, that her fingers should not stop their tempting exploration of his leg. Finally, as if she had determined that he wasn’t capable of undressing himself, her hands went to the buckles of his breastplate and released them with a few swift tugs.

Breaking their kiss, he lifted the metal from his shoulders and laid it on the ground near the wall of the tent. She trailed closely after him, never letting her hands leave his body, helping him strip off the last few items of his armor and clothing until he was in nothing except his small clothes. Shivering under the gentle caresses of her slender fingers, he stepped back into her embrace and covered her lips with his own. He could feel the soft mounds of her breasts press tightly against his chest, even though they were covered by the material of her dress and underclothes, and he wrapped his arms to hold her against him, crushing her tender flesh against his harder body.

His hands slipped across her back and down to cup the curves of her buttocks, levering her more tightly against him so that he could rub his manhood against her abdomen. Gasping and moaning softly at the motion, Nori rose on her tiptoes, shifting to try to angle the pressure of his body to the right places on her own. He lifted his mouth from hers, and he traced his tongue around the curves of her ear.

“It doesn’t seem fair that you should have access to nearly all of my flesh, young lady,” he scolded in a whisper, “and yet you are still completely clothed.”

“I have to be careful,” she replied, equally as softly. “I need to know where my clothes are when I have to leave.”

“I understand,” he said, slowly moving the both of them over to where his bedroll was lying on the ground. When her foot encountered the edge of the pads and blankets where she had been resting only moments before, she released her hold on him and began to work the fastenings on her own clothing. He knelt in front of her, sliding her sturdy boots from her feet while she continued to deal with the buttons and loops on her dress. Laying her shoes together to one side, he slipped his fingers up under her skirt, trailing his hands over her calves and thighs until he found the tops of her stockings. One after the other, he drew them down and laid them with her footwear. The soft shush of her dress told him that she had released the last of the fasteners, and he felt the material sag down onto his forearms. Gathering the fabric in his hands, he quickly folded it and dropped it with the rest of the items that he had already organized for her.

She stood before him, and Cullen knew that she was dressed only in her underclothes. With so much of her exposed in front of his kneeling form, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to lean close to her and trace his tongue across the flesh of her thighs. The scent of her rose up to fill his nostrils, that delicate musk of her feminine body, and the fragrance drove his lust to a greater height with just one inhaled breath. Slipping a hand beneath the leg opening of her underpants, he stroked the flesh of her lower abdomen with the pad of his thumb, inching ever closer to the crease in the center of her body and the little nub that could drive her pleasure to greater heights. When he finally caressed it, he could hear her gasp above him, and the sound flew like an arrow into his shaft, tightening it to a maddening degree. He forced himself to ignore his own burning while he worked his fingers between her legs, gently caressing the soft skin of her nether lips and gathering the moisture that dewed the interior of them. Bringing his other hand up to replace the one that was flavored with her wetness, he continued his caresses while he slipped the fingers of his first hand into his mouth and sucked her taste off his fingers.

“Your juices are like the sweetest nectar,” he moaned when he had lapped the last bit of her dew into his mouth. “Like sweet honey reserved for the Maker himself.” As he said these words, he slipped a finger of his other hand past the soft barrier of her nether lips and into the dark heat of her body. Reflexively, her hips pressed toward him, and he heard another gasp leap from her lips while her hands wrapped around the back of his head. Her nails clawed into his scalp, but he welcomed the sensation, because it took him just that much away from the brink of his own fulfillment.

Wrapping his hands in the waistband of her underpants, he slid them from her hips and laid them carefully with her other clothing items. “Take off your breast binding, and I will lay it with your other clothing.”

He could feel her moving, and then her hand, filled with fabric, pressed against his shoulder. Taking the breast binder from her fingers, he quickly folded it and put it away, always keeping contact with her body through his hands, fingers, arms, and lips — stroking, kissing, and suckling her smooth, warm flesh while he worked to protect her reputation.

When her clothing was put in order, he turned to her again and whispered, “Will you join me, love? Will you share my bedroll?”

In response, she gracefully came to her knees in front of him, her hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head, her lips seeking his there in the darkness. The first grazing touch of her breasts against his chest made him gasp, and he tilted their bodies so that he could lie beside her, one arm pillowing her head, his lips locked tightly to hers. His other hand roved across her curves, cupping her buttocks to pull her more tightly against his hips and then releasing her and moving to stroke across the soft fullness of her breast. She sighed and gasped when he lifted his mouth from hers, and she threw her upper leg across his waist, arching her hips forward either instinctively or as an invitation for him to do more.

He chose to believe the second explanation and pressed her onto her back, levering to one of his knees so that he could have easy access to every inch of her. Cupping that one breast again, he pinched the nipple until it hardened between his fingers and then he dropped his mouth onto it, suckling it while Nori’s gasps echoed in his ears. While he continued to tantalize her body, she reached between them and took his hardness in her fingers, even though it was still covered by his drawers. A little huffing noise of anger rose from her lips, and she released his shaft so that she could drag at the waistband of his undergarment. The linen slipped across his buttocks, and her hands returned to cup and caress him. Soft and strong, her fingers drove his passion higher, and Cullen found his ability to control his need to be buried inside of her slipping away more quickly than ever.

“I must have you, Nori,” he whispered against her ear, grinding his teeth together while he waited for her response, simply to keep himself from spending in the gentle caress of her hands. “Let me into your garden, love. I’m no longer able to contain my need for you. Open for me.”

She sighed beneath him and released his shaft, shifting her legs so that he could kneel before her. Grasping his manhood, he guided himself forward until he found her opening and then he thrust into her, reveling in the heat and comforting moisture that surrounded him. He stifled a loud groan of pleasure and dropped his weight down onto her body, leaning close to her ear so that he could whisper his pleasure while his hips rocked against her.

When she responded to his words and the rhythm of his thrusts, he rose up on his hands, trusting the intimate synchronicity of their movements to bring them both fulfillment. Nori squirmed and drove beneath him, finally sinking her teeth into his forearm when her body began to shiver with her climax. Gasping at the pain of her bite, Cullen stabbed forward and let his body finally take complete control until he was throbbing and pulsing his pleasure deep into her warm center. Collapsing beside her, he pressed his face against her neck and finally moaned softly, only for her to hear, to let her know that he was satisfied.

She pulled him against her, allowing him to use her shoulder as a pillow, her fingers gently following the muscles of his arm down to his fingertips and then back to his shoulder.

“I would have to say,” he yawned, raising one hand to cover his mouth and then trailing his fingers down to the breast just below his chin, “that I have been greatly comforted by your presence in my tent tonight, Nori. Thank you.”

She chuckled softly. “There’s no need for that, you know. I’m equally as pleased.”

“I know that you took a risk being with me tonight. It seems only appropriate that I express my appreciation.”

“With words?” she whispered.

Cullen laughed and pulled her against him. This time their loving was slow and languorous, filled with long kisses and caresses that covered every inch of each of their bodies. They rose together, making the most of these brief moments of peace, knowing that their tomorrows were uncertain, clouded by the mages and the templars and the new unknown threat. With his fingers and his lips, he tried to memorize her soft curves, knowing that he would cherish these memories in the darkness of his room in the Chantry in Haven. When they finally crossed that apex, one after the other, they settled against each other, their lips entwined, their bodies sated. He yawned deeply and drifted to sleep.

It was the noise of the camp awakening that drew him from his slumber, and he reached out across his bedroll. But Nori wasn’t there. Not that he had expected for her to have remained, especially because she was part of the royal household. Running his hand across the top of his head, he sat up and scanned his tent.

A lightly colored strip of fabric attracted his attention, and he reached out to take it in his hands. Nori had left her underpants for some reason.

The memory of the smell of her drove him to lift the material closer to his face and inhale deeply. And there it was, the musk of her body, pressed into the weave of her underpants. Crumpling the fabric between his fingers, he brushed the cloth against his cheek and then rose to his feet. Crossing to his saddlebags, he folded the material neatly and slid the underpants in with his own clothing.

It was silly. He was keeping a memento of a woman that he had made love to three times, in the darkness of his room and his tent. It had been a simple exchange — her caring and compassion to soothe his broken soul. The way he looked at it, she was a miracle, delivered to him — if not by the Maker — then at least by some goddess of the night who believed that her darkness had the power to alleviate the cracks in a man’s soul.

But never again. There was no chance that she would happen into his life again. She would live only in his memory.

At least now, he had a reminder.


	9. The Castle Infiltrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Anora has begun to feel some hope for her future, assassins attack the castle, putting her and Alistair's lives in danger.

Anora sat in her garden, ignoring the book that she had brought with her from her small collection of favorite stories. It was a romantic little tale, filled with knights sworn to a sacred duty and women who needed rescuing or waited patiently for the men to return. Silly stuff, really, not at all based in any reality that she had ever experienced. But the stories matched her mood, even if they couldn’t completely capture her attention.

She hadn’t felt this light, this filled with hope, for years. Both of her marriages — joyous occasions for the simple folk of Ferelden — had been clouded by an overwhelming sense of duty, first to her father’s wishes and then for the good of the kingdom. And the rebuilding of Denerim, the nation, and the confidence of the nobility in her and Alistair’s ability to rule effectively had turned the last few years into a chore more than anything. Anora had had few moments where her duty and fear for Ferelden had truly been transformed by hope.

But today, in this moment, she knew that hope grew inside of her.

And, Maker, did they need that hope!

After the mages had left Redcliffe to Teagan’s care, they had followed the Inquisitor back to Haven. Where they had been trapped and forced to battle a … a demon filled with magical powers and guarded by his own dragon. The village had fallen, destroyed by the overwhelming military force that the demon had gathered and the Inquisitor’s need to escape by collapsing the ancient system of hallways and tunnels that had originally led from the village to the temple. In the resulting chaos, the Inquisition — at least those who remained — had been able to escape, as had the Inquisitor.

Now, they occupied a long-forgotten fortress high in the Frostback Mountains. Anora had found out — through the careful inquiries that Mi’Nehn made — that the templar, Cullen Rutherford, had survived, as had all of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. When she had heard the news, she had sighed in relief and then pushed her emotions aside. Whether she cared about the templar or not was immaterial to the future of Ferelden. All that mattered what that she ensure the succession.

Which she had. Maker bless her, she had finally become pregnant.

She had realized weeks ago, but had held the information close, not sharing her suspicions with anyone. Hana, her maid, suspected, she was certain, because the woman was responsible for so much of her intimate care. But she had yet to inform even Alistair of the joyous news.

Of course, she couldn’t be certain whether the child was her husband’s or the templar’s. To deflect any uncertainty, she had been sure to continue to have intimate relations with Alistair, especially near a moment when she had been able to be with Cullen. The two men were also so similar in their outward appearances, it should protect her from suspicion.

But that was for when the child was born, after she had delivered the hope of Ferelden’s future.

After she had held her infant in her arms and suckled it at her breast. After she had finally become some else’s mother.

Absentmindedly, she stroked her hand across her lower abdomen where it was hidden behind the fabric of her dress. There, just behind the cloth and flesh, her child was blossoming, becoming larger and stronger with each passing day. In time … in time …

Her wishful thoughts were interrupted when Mi’Nehn suddenly appeared beside her, one hand wrapping around her upper arm and squeezing tightly to attract her attention. Anora looked up, feeling her stomach clench at the fear that she found in the elf’s lilac eyes, and she immediately rose to her feet.

“Your majesty,” the assassin whispered tensely, “you must come with me. No questions. Quickly.”

Anora nodded and trotted after the elf. When they reached the doorway into the castle, Mi’Nehn stopped and tugged the portal open, ducking her head inside and checking in both directions. She nodded at someone who was waiting and then gestured for the queen to step through the door. When she was inside, she paused so that her eyes could adjust to the dimmer light and then located other person, the one whom Mi’Nehn had recognized. Her maid, Hana, was standing just inside the doorway, a wicked-looking axe clutched in each of her hands, her body encased in a lacquered, layered splint mail. The older woman caught her eyes and nodded to her.

“Hana?” Anora asked, confused and uncertain.

“No time, your majesty,” she said briefly, motioning for the queen to follow the assassin who had already advanced down the hallway. “We must get you to the war room, where you will be safe.”

Nodding, Anora swiftly walked in the direction that Mi’Nehn had already taken. In the distance, she began to hear voices calling to each other, anxious and sharp, and they filled her with a deepening dread. “Where’s the king?” she called to the assassin in front of her. “Do you know where my husband is?”

“Not now,” the elf hissed. Anora saw her wave one hand and then Hana took her arm, pressing her against the wall and stepping in front of her to act as a shield. The queen could feel an overwhelming urge to move closer to her female protectors, but she realized that it wouldn’t be wise. Any unexpected contact or clinginess could inhibit the women from performing their duties, using their skills and their own bodies to protect her from any kind of threat. When Mi’Nehn looked over her shoulder and nodded, Hana stepped to one side and allowed Anora to follow the assassin deeper into the castle.

Eventually, after a series of looping ascents and backtracks, Mi’Nehn led them down the corridor that crossed in front of the king’s war room. Before they approached the doors, the assassin forced them to remain behind her while she crouched and slipped silently across the stones to the closed portals, her eyes constantly searching while she moved.

“Where are the guards?” Anora whispered to Hana. “Why are they not at their posts?”

The older woman simply shook her head, her eyes straining down the hallway to keep track of the elf as she flitted between the few shadowy areas. Looking behind her, Anora nervously checked for anyone approaching from the other direction and strained her ears for any noise that seemed to be too close, too dangerous to her and her handmaidens. Her fingers began to itch, wanting something to hold that would make her feel that she might have a way to fight back if it became necessary. But years ago, she had put her faith in these women; she must continue to believe that they had her best interests and her safety in the front of their minds.

Mi’Nehn looked back at them just then and motioned with one hand — a hand that was filled with a long dagger that glinted in a stray shaft of sunlight. In response, Hana grabbed her arm and pulled her down the corridor. The elf threw the doors to the war room open, and the old woman hustled her through the portal and slammed it closed behind them.

Dropping the heavy wooden bar across the braces, Mi’Nehn quickly scanned the chamber and then rushed into the corners, as if someone could be hiding in the golden glow that filled the entire room. She also looked under the large table that sat in the center of the room. When she seemed satisfied, she motioned at Anora, and the queen crossed to the far side of the room, closer to the windows.

“You must remain here, your majesty,” the elf said, her body as tense as a strung bow. “Hana and I will take the guards’ places in the hall. Do not open the door for anyone.”

“What about the king? Won’t they be bringing him here? I need for him to be brought to me, so that I’ll know he’s safe.”

Hana shook her head. “The fighting began in the yard, your majesty. The king had gone there to review the newest troops, the ones who we had thought would be added to the household guard. The …” the old woman’s voice caught, “the attack came from among those … the recruits. Somehow the assassins replaced those candidates that had already been selected. It’s feared that they were sent by one of the houses farther to the north, closer to Orlais and Tevinter. They hoped to strike a blow against the Inquisition, especially after the king allowed them passage to deal with the rents in the sky.”

Anora could feel her fear clench in her gut, like a fist closing inside of her body. A little stab of pain raced through her, but she ignored it and clasped her hands together in front of her. Crossing to one of the walls of windows, she peered out at the city, listening to the sounds of battle that drifted up from the courtyard, all the way up to these brilliant windows so high above the ground. “My husband?” she asked, feeling another jolt of fear rush through her body. “Where is he now? Was he injured in the first volley?”

“The king fights with his men, of course,” Mi’Nehn remarked, and the words sounded much too casual to Anora. Why should anyone assume that the king would wade into battle with an unknown enemy? she wondered while her fingers clasped and unclasped just above the gripping of her abdomen. “He has led the counterattack in the practice yard. In time, I’m certain he’ll clear the castle of these interlopers.”

“Yes,” Anora said stiffly. “Alistair is skilled in battle. And he has maintained his training …”

“We need to go,” Hana said. “We’ll be more useful if we are among those who are fighting for our king and queen.”

Anora looked over her shoulder at the two women, one whose face was lined and whose hair had turned as white as the snows of the Frostback Mountains. The other who was truly as unpredictable as the flight of the gulls over the harbor. The women she had given her life over to, to guard and preserve.

“Go,” she directed. “I will bar the door behind you. I won’t open it until I hear Alistair’s voice calling to me from the other side.”

Mi’Nehn nodded and led her to the door. When Anora was next to it, the elf pressed one of her long ears against the wood and listened. Gesturing to Hana, they slipped the bar from one of the doors and pulled it open. After Mi’Nehn had checked the hall, she pulled the older woman out behind her. Tugging at the bar, Anora slid it back into place and then leaned her forehead against the hard, unyielding surface.

Perhaps she should have known better. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gripped that tiny, growing seed of hope so tightly. In all of her life, there had been too few moments that had brought her happiness and peace; and just when she had thought that they could finally be hers, someone had come along to snatch them away from her. Again.

Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, but she choked them back viciously, chastising herself for giving in to her despair so quickly. Pushing away from the door, she gritted her teeth together and looked around the room. It was a little ridiculous for her to feel like a prisoner in her own home, and she knew that her protectors had done it for her own good. But she chafed at the enclosed space, even if it was light and airy because of the walls of windows …

The windows! she thought, crossing to them in a rush and listening beside each wall. By concentrating on the volume of the sounds of battle that she could hear rising from the courtyard, she chose one set and pulled the center panel open. Suddenly, the noise of the conflict — of sword meeting sword, men crying out in pain — magnified, and Anora could feel her body gripped by a panicky dread when she remembered similar sounds caused by the darkspawn army moving into Denerim. That day, so many years ago, she had forced herself to be strong, to stand for the kingdom and the promises that she and Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden had made among themselves. There had been hope in those words, somewhere, but they had the enormous obstacle of the Archdemon to overcome first. And those noises — metal against metal, the explosive collapse of rock, the moans of the injured — brought it all back.

Alistair, Anora thought. If I can only see him, I’ll be reassured. I will be able to protect him by the force of my will alone, to keep him safe so that I can share the gift of our coming child with him.

Stretching out onto the windowsill, Anora looked down into the soldiers' practice yard, her eyes anxiously scanning the figures for that one familiar form. She knew that she would recognize him, despite the fact that, years ago, he had consigned Cailan’s golden armor to a stand in the great hall near an official portrait that had been painted after her first husband’s death. The gilded plate was reserved for state occasions; for his daily training and duties, Alistair wore an older set, probably the same armor that he had donned to face the Archdemon’s army while the Hero of Ferelden had climbed to her destiny with the dragon.

Anora’s eyes skipped from figure to figure, flinching slightly when she recognized the ones who would never again rise from the flat stones of the courtyard. She lifted a little prayer to the Maker each time she saw one, not knowing whether they served the king or the assassins. But dead was dead, and it was the will of the Maker that would decide their eternal reward.

Finally, she found him, surrounded by a group of soldiers, his bare head shining like a beacon among the hard, iron helmets. Anora could see him gesturing to direct the movement of the soldiers, driving them to press on toward the doors that would grant them admittance to the barracks and thus into the lower level of the castle. He disappeared from her sight, only to reappear in the next moment when a blast from some mage’s staff drove them away from their goal.

But her view of him was so intermittent, so unpredictable, that Anora found herself feeling frustrated by her view. Moving to another wall of windows, she pulled a likely one open and dropped her belly onto the sill so that she could stretch out above the courtyard and study the battle. After a few moments, she realized that the flow was too random; but she was determined to continue. In her frustration, she gathered the hem of her dress in her hands, tugging it up over her thighs so that she could straddle the window sill, the edge gripped hard between her fingers to that she could lean out as much as possible above the men clashing with each other. The fabric of her dress cushioned her from the hard edges of the window frame, wedged up between her legs as it was, and she was grateful for the added padding.

Anora was also grateful that the battle had become so pitched that none of the defenders or attackers had time to look up and see her perched on the edge of the castle window, with one leg exposed to their eyes. The archers had long ago abandoned their bows for hand-to-hand weapons, and the mages had enough to deal with from the templars that Alistair had insisted make up part of his personal guard. Until this moment, she had never appreciated her husband’s fondness for the men who shared his most basic training. Until now.

But the men were not foolproof, and while she watched, a spell wrapped Alistair in a tangle of vines, causing him to fall to one knee, unable to advance or retreat. Anora felt another of those stabbing grips of fear race through her, a sudden tightening that settled inside of her and wouldn’t release her, even after she had seen the king rise among his guards and direct another attack. She sighed in relief and absentmindedly pressed one hand into her abdomen to relieve the pain.

Eventually the palace guard proved too much for the assassins, and Anora could hear the shouts of small groups of men calling to each other while they ferreted out the last of the conspirators. Swinging her leg back through the window, Anora crossed to the door and slid the bar open, waiting for Alistair to finally come and release her from her temporary prison. To occupy herself, she paced the floor with her hands clasped tightly behind her, silently willing Alistair to hurry up the stairs and into the war room.

A few minutes later, she could hear voices outside the door, and she hurried over to it so that she could listen and be certain who was there.

“She will only open it to your voice, your majesty,” Hana was explaining and then someone was pounding on the door.

“Anora!” Alistair called. “Anora, let me in.”

She did as he requested, pulling the door open and turning to walk deeper into the room. Filled with the energy of his first real battle in years, Alistair pushed his way across the threshold and hurtled toward her. But after a stride or two, he stopped and his eyes scanned her.

“How? How were you injured?” he whispered harshly, calling to the women waiting behind him, “See to the queen! She’s injured.”

Confused, Anora looked at herself, not at all certain what Alistair was talking about. Glancing at her palms, she noticed that they were tinged with a brownish russet color, as if the framing for the tall, glass-filled windows had rusted and rubbed off when she had leaned out to observe the battle. Lifting her hands toward her husband, she tried to explain but then she saw splotches on the front of her gown. She frowned and met Alistair’s worried eyes, scanning the room, trying to understand what was happening. A baleful rushing noise filled her head, making it almost impossible for her to concentrate on anything else.

The king hurried to her side and lifted her in his arms. Anora tried to argue with him — that she was perfectly healthy and able to walk anywhere that he wanted her to go — but no one seemed to want to listen to her. Hana and Mi’Nehn raced away from them, and Alistair followed, more carefully, taking each step down to the floor for their quarters with infinite care. When they finally entered her bedchamber, Anora saw that her bed had been stripped of the fine linens she usually slept on, and Hana had shrugged out of her armor, leaving it in an untidy pile on the floor at the foot of her bed. She was about to say something, when Alistair slowly lowered her onto the mattress, and the pain gripped through her abdomen again. Her eyes widened as a nagging fear began in the back of her mind, and she glanced uneasily between her husband and the old woman who was her maid.

“You should leave us, your majesty,” Hana was saying, hustling to Anora’s side and beginning to help her out of her clothing.

“I … I can’t,” Alistair stuttered, hovering behind her maid and staring down at her with unmasked terror. “You … what … she can’t die.”

The old woman made a clucking sound with her tongue and took the king by his arm, leading him to the door. “You can wait in her antechamber, your majesty. I’ll keep you informed.”

Reluctantly, continually looking back over his shoulder at her, Alistair was finally forced from the room. Hana trotted over to her and stripped her out of her clothing, helping her into one of her oldest and most worn nightgowns. Throughout the process, Anora moved reluctantly, as if her body was as frozen as her heart felt, gripped as it was in the dread that filled her.

“What is it?” she whispered tensely. “What have I done?”

“Nothing, little one,” Hana cooed at her, trying to soothe her in the same way that someone might reassure a child. “You’ve done nothing wrong. There was nothing that you could do. It is as the Maker wills …”

The Maker, Anora wondered silently. What could the Maker want of me? What sacrifice …?

Tears started rolling across her cheeks as a dreadful certainty settled in the pit of her stomach, just above the unrelenting cramping that gripped her lower abdomen. Moments after she had been resettled in her bed, Mi’Nehn entered the room with a cup of something that Hana urged her to drink. The taste was bitter and made her head swim, but it didn’t stop the flow of her tears or ease the horrific pain that shot through her regularly now. In fact, it seemed to intensify it.

Anora swam in a hazy half existence, and some time in the next hours she spiked a raging fever. Tossing and turning, she drifted, uncertain from one moment to the next whether what she heard or saw was reality. Eventually, the fever broke, and her aching body gave up its terrible fight against itself. She slept for a time, waking when she heard Alistair’s voice in her antechamber. Opening her eyes, she looked around at the twilight that filled her room, not certain what day it was or how long she had lingered in her bed.

After the king had consulted with Hana, their voices almost imperceptible over the distance to where they stood beside the door, Anora felt her mattress sag. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned her head and met Alistair’s eyes, seeing the deep sorrow in the lines of his face. A sob caught in her throat, but she couldn’t look away, knowing that he had come to her so that he could help bear her distress.

“Oh, Anora,” he whispered, sliding one arm under her head and scooting tightly against her. “You never told me. How could you not tell me you were carrying our child?”

“I was about to,” she said in return, feeling the tears start. “But I wanted to be certain. I didn’t want to hope if… if I …”

Alistair pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, the words catching in his throat. “Maker’s breath, Anora, so very sorry.”

“So am I,” she managed to choke out and then she turned into his embrace. In the protection of his arms, she let herself release her hold on the tight control that she had maintained somehow, and she howled her pain and loss into the darkness that settled around her. Alistair soothed her, stroking her back and pressing kisses against her face.

It helped, but it was the moment when she felt his own teardrops fall onto her cheek that helped the most. Just then, she understood that she wasn’t alone, would never be alone, as long as he was at her side.

And in that moment, it was enough.


	10. The Garden of Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen faces the inevitable changes to the Inquisition.
> 
> And he meets a dog, because Mabari are the best idea that anyone ever had, and they just blew them off in Inquisition. (Mabari are very important in my first Dragon Age fanfic, and do play a role in the second one.)
> 
> And he meets some old friends.

Cullen sighed and studied the gardens of Halamshiral, knowing that he had been brought here to oversee the reorganization of something that he had helped make great. But in this moment, looking around at the little pockets of people trailing throughout the gardens, he wasn’t certain whether he was attending a celebration or a wake.

The Orlesian courtiers didn’t make it easier to decipher, of course, because they were too used to playing their grand Game every moment of their lives. Their beautifully decorated masked hid their expressions, as if they ever truly displayed one, and their painted lips were just as likely to spew venom as they were to express concern. It was more important, in the end, to find that moment when you could slip the blade — real or imaginary — home and step over the corpse into your victim’s place. A well-placed rumor could be just as effective as a knife, and it was certainly less likely to get one thrown into the palace dungeons.

The Tevinter contingent, such as it was, was hardly any better. And Cullen could say that with a perfectly straight face, knowing that Dorian, who had spent the last few years helping the Inquisition, was the primary representative for the magisters. The templar and the mage had reached a kind of uneasy truce in their relationship, especially considering Dorian’s sudden appearance in Redcliffe with reassurances that he held the only way to solve their problems. Oh, Maker, where had he heard that before? But eventually, Cullen had been able to push his doubts into the back of his mind, at least in those moments when he had to interact with the Inquisitor and his inner circle. In the darkness of his own room … well, his thoughts were his own.

He scanned the marble staircases and formal planters, suddenly realizing that the Fereldens were probably completely out of their element trying to negotiate with the rest of the kingdoms of Thedas. His countrymen were blunt, plain-speaking people who preferred to use reason — and sometimes their fists — to solve their conflicts. The little group of representatives probably felt out of place in this world of masks and words that meant more than one or two or even three things. They would be lucky to get a tenth of their demands met. If they were lucky.

Cullen looked around the garden again, deciding that he, most of all, didn’t belong here. Turning on his heel, he started across the stone walkways in the general direction of where he remembered the stables being and stumbled across something that he hadn’t even noticed was behind him. He looked down into the hopeful eyes of a large Mabari war hound and noticed that its tail was wagging furiously. While he watched, the dog tipped its head and let its mouth open so that its long, pink tongue could dangle out to one side.

“I would excuse myself,” he said, crossing his arms on his chest, “but you clearly were in the wrong, sir. Or madam.”

The hound looked at him and sniffed, turning its head to one side as if it felt offended by Cullen’s refusal to apologize. Sighing, the templar squatted down in front of the Mabari and checked around its neck for a collar.

“Look, you believe that I fell over you. I understand that. But from my point of view, you started it by lying down directly behind my heels. It was your fault; therefore, it’s your responsibility to apologize first.”

The dog seemed to frown at him and then it sniffed again. Almost without thinking about it, Cullen began rubbing one of the Mabari’s ears, and the hound leaned heavily against his hand. Looking around the gardens again, he tried to locate the hound’s owner, but there was no one anywhere near this section of trellises and paving stones. The dog pressed closer and slid slowly onto its side, rolling over onto its back so that the templar could rub its belly.

Her belly, he thought to himself after a quick glance at other parts of the spotted hound’s anatomy. 

“I assume you’re here as part of the Ferelden delegation, madam,” he commented. When the hound snorted once again, Cullen lifted one eyebrow at the dog, confused as to how an animal that was usually so completely native to his own kingdom could have gotten so far from their home. “Not with the Fereldens, then.” The hound barked. “A representative for the Mabari contingency?”

As if in response, the dog rolled over so that she was sitting upright with her ears pointed alertly to show that she was listening, perhaps to the speeches of the leaders of the factions represented at this negotiation. And then she yawned, long and widely, and rolled her eyes.

“I could not agree with you more, madam. I was just about to go visit my horse as an antidote to this miasma of pointless chatter and posturing. Perhaps I could convince you to stroll with me through the garden and out to the stable?”

The Mabari leapt to her feet and gamboled around his legs, careful to keep a safe distance so that she wouldn’t knock into him. He laughed appreciatively, feeling the hound’s joyful expressions of excitement relieve some of the oppression that had lingered on his own soul in the last few weeks. Starting off again, he watched the dog race forward along one of the paved pathways until just the moment when she would be lost from his sight by a turning in the pavers or a low-hanging bit of foliage. At that exact moment, the Mabari would turn and race back to him, her legs pumping furiously until she rushed past him, her toenails clicking and scrabbling when she spun behind him to hurry past and forward again. It surprised Cullen that all of this activity hadn’t exhausted the hound, but he reminded himself that the dog had been bred as a companion for warriors, an aid to them in battle. He realized that he would have felt less respect for the Mabari if she had acted like an average dog and less like a battle-hardened warrior.

More by following the hound than anything else, Cullen found the stables and slipped into the shade of the building. A few heads peeked over the doors that lined both sides of the breezeway, and the bright whicker of several horses echoed among the stalls. The Mabari snuffled eagerly down the row, touching noses with any of the mounts who seemed eager and friendly, ignoring those who laid back their ears or bared their teeth at her. Cullen didn’t immediately see his own horse in the collection of brown and white and gold heads, so he started down the row, peering over each stall door in turn.

“There you are,” he said when he finally recognized a pair of hindquarters that were firmly directed toward the doorway. The horse looked back at him and snorted, hanging his head back down toward the straw and shifting his weight from one side to the other. Cullen felt completely snubbed. By his horse.

“Come now! You can’t be pouting in all this luxury, can you? Besides, I brought someone to meet you, and you aren’t putting your best hoof forward so far. Come along, then.”

The horse shook itself and then turned in the large box stall, crossing reluctantly — at least it seemed that way to Cullen — until he dropped his head over the half-door that kept him in the stall. The Mabari trotted back down the passage and sat down, looking at the horse for a moment and then at the templar. He had the impression that the hound was waiting to be introduced. When she tipped her head to one side and nodded slightly toward his mount, he knew it must be true. Maker bless him, Mabari were too smart for their own good. How would he ever keep up with one?

He cleared his throat, giving up without saying anything. “Horse,” he began, because he had never actually given the animal a name. After he had arrived at the Inquisition in Haven, the mount had become something of communal property, used for messengers and scouts during their time there and then at Skyhold. Cullen had always asked for him when he had needed to ride, and he had asked to be allowed to keep this particular horse with him in the aftermath of whatever these negotiations created: new growth for the institution of the Inquisition or destruction through its complete disbanding.

“Horse,” he began again, “I would like to introduce you to my new friend, this noble Mabari war hound. Madam, my horse.”

The dog rose to her feet and then stretched forward, hindquarters up, head down over her extended front legs. It gave the hound the appearance of bowing toward his horse, and Cullen almost laughed at the sight. His mount dipped his head and then shook it up and down, neighing deep in its chest. After the hound had risen to her feet, the horse pressed forward against the door to his stall and draped his neck over the dog’s back. They lingered together for a long moment and then Cullen moved closer so that he could open the door to the stall. The Mabari walked into the space and seemed to explore it, growling and yapping at the horse while she went. His mount circled with her, answering her in low whinnies.

Cullen watched the two animals continue to create their friendship, and he leaned one shoulder against the frame of the door to his horse’s stall. In moments, the Mabari had claimed a pile of straw for herself, and the horse nudged at the bedding materials beside the hound, as if he was trying to add to the soft cushioning in the stall. Rolling onto her back and wriggling in the straw, the dog grunted her pleasure, and the horse nodded his own agreement with the hounds expressions. Grinning at the two of them, Cullen let the casual lightheartedness of their interactions lift the oppression that had lingered in his heart in the last few weeks. If the dog and horse were any indication, something new could come from the changes that would happen to the Inquisition, and new things could be joyful. It was all a matter of how Cullen looked at it.

As if to echo his own thoughts, a light laugh filled the breezeway behind him, and he pushed away from the door frame so that he could look in that direction. Two women, one masked and with her hair covered in a dark veil and the other an elf with black hair and lilac-colored eyes, were looking into the stall at the two animals. He studied the veiled and masked woman briefly and then looked at the other again.

“Mi’Nehn?” he asked curiously. “I hadn’t known that you were here.”

The elf dipped into a brief curtsey, as did the masked woman. “There are things that servants hear that can be useful in a negotiation like this,” Mi’Nehn said. “The king and queen chose to send my friend and I along with the delegation. I had thought that you knew her.”

Cullen studied the woman more closely, noting the little smile that lifted the corners of her rose lips. Lips that seemed to beg him to kiss them, even though he had no idea who the woman was. He shook his head and looked back to the elf.

It was the veiled woman who spoke instead. “You shouldn’t tease the commander so, Mi’Nehn,” the low pitched voice said, and Cullen snapped his attention back to the woman. It had been years since he had heard that voice, but it could still send a thrill through him that lit a burning fire in his loins. “Unfortunately, the commander and I have never met in the light until now.”

“Nori?” he said, taking a quick step toward her and taking one of her hands in his. “Is that you, truly?”

She dipped a curtsey and squeezed his fingers, allowing her hand to rest in his while he studied the parts of her face that weren’t hidden by her mask and veil. In his imagination, he hadn’t envisioned that her skin was so softly porcelain smooth or that her lower lip has such an adorable, pouting quality to it. Without thinking, he raised his other hand and stroked the pad of his thumb across that fullness, watching as her lips parted and just barely catching the gasp that escaped between them. The noise, along with the velvety texture of her mouth, sent a shock through him, and he could feel his manhood stir. He suddenly had a mental image of Nori cushioned on a pile of hay with her skirts rucked up around her hips, her arms reaching to pull him down on top of her …

The sound of whistling interrupted Cullen’s thoughts, and he looked quickly down the breezeway to where a stablehand had just turned into the corridor. Dropping Nori’s hand, he took a step so that he could block the newcomer’s view of the woman. At the same moment, Mi’Nehn moved next to Nori and looped her arm through hers, leaning close to whisper in the other woman’s ear.

Cullen was about to speak when the Mabari hound that had been following him walked out of his horse’s stall and stood between him and the two women. He heard the stablehand call to him and turned to answer, but not before he saw the hound make that same bowing motion toward the women — hindquarters up, head down on her outstretched paws. Mi’Nehn laughed and squatted down to scratch the Mabari’s ears, and he could swear that he saw Nori’s cheeks loose a little bit of their color.

“Them hounds ain’t allowed in the stable, ser,” the stablehand said. “Hounds has they own pens.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen apologized quickly, looking down at the dog who was enjoying at least her second belly rub of the day. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Perhaps we should retire to the gardens, Commander,” Nori suggested in her soft, husky voice. “Your hound would certainly be welcomed there.”

Reaching out, Cullen tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her into the sunshine of the waning afternoon. A quick look over his shoulder reassured him that Mi’Nehn and the Mabari were both following them, and his horse stared after them as if he, too, wanted to take a turn around the garden walkways, but a chain across the stall opening stopped him. When they were out among the shaded bowers and hidden niches, he once again took Nori’s fingers in his, rubbing his thumb across the satiny smooth skin of her hand.

“You’ll cause a scandal, commander,” she said quietly, trying to pull away from him, but he refused to release her fingers. “What will the members of the Inquisition say if you’re seen walking with a strange, masked woman in the gardens?”

“They’ll think that it’s about time that I thought about something other than training exercises and troop deployments. They might even be relieved to know that I’m actually human.”

Nori’s voice dropped to a purring whisper that only reached his ears. “They had only to ask me. I certainly could have told them how wonderfully human you are.”

Maker’s breath! How could only a few words from this woman’s lips set him to burning so easily? And after the years that they had been separated by his work for the Inquisition, he still dreamed of her and the nights that they had spent together. Even now, he scouted through the shrubberies, trying to find a place where he could press his lips against hers and plunder the honey of her mouth with his tongue without causing her problems with the delegation from Ferelden.

“Are you worried about what Arl Teagan will do if you’re discovered with me?” he asked, letting his grip on her fingers ease in case she wanted to take her hand back. “Should you not be seen with me?”

Nori laughed lightly and squeezed his hand in response. “If Arl Teagan even knew that I was here, then I would consider the repercussions. But he hasn’t payed attention to the women in the delegation. I believe that I will be safe.”

Cullen looked over his shoulder and noticed that Mi’Nehn and the Mabari were trailing behind them so that their conversation was only between him and Nori. For some reason, the elven woman seemed just as alert as he was, scanning the garden while she chatted with the large hound. When their eyes met, she smiled at him and nodded, as if she knew that he had observed her attentiveness, and he grinned at the realization that he had been discovered. He let himself relax just a bit more and turned back to his conversation with Nori.

“I’m surprised to find you here, especially because the king and queen are not in attendance.”

She shrugged. “They believed that the arl could represent the kingdom adequately, considering that he was actually so deeply affected by the Inquisition’s earliest actions in regard to the mage-templar war. Ferelden’s history with Orlais may have guided their decision. They didn’t want to be seen coming at the order of the Orlesian queen or the Orlesian Chantry. Some of the older noble houses still smart from the invasion.”

“You seem well informed about the politics of the kingdom,” he remarked, turning her down another pathway in the hopes of finding a more secluded portion of the gardens.

“When you are as intimate with the queen as I am, there is no way to avoid the politics.”

“I don’t mean to be too forward,” Cullen started slowly, uncertain whether he wanted to proceed with the question that had been bothering him since he had first heard the information in the war room at Skyhold. But there was only one way to learn. “But we had the report of the assassination attempt and the queen’s miscarriage. Has she recovered?” He could feel the woman at his side stiffen at his question, but he hurried on. “I know that it’s not my place to ask, but when I heard the report, I … I have to admit that I thought of you. Of the queen, of course, because she is the heart of the kingdom. But I had wondered how you were affected by her and the king’s loss.”

He could hear Nori sigh, and he looked over at her, seeing the sad downturn of her rose-colored lips. “It was truly a tragedy for the queen. But the king felt the loss as keenly, which was remarkable to see. I believe that she still feels pain at the memory, but she has become more herself recently.”

“I’m sorry to have asked you, Nori,” Cullen said, tightening his grip on her hand. “I suppose I should have simply put my curiosity to one side, but because I had the chance to ask, I took it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed by the edges of her beautifully decorated mask. “I forgive you, commander,” she said, smiling slightly. “The queen will appreciate your concern, I’m certain.”

“As I said, I didn’t ask for her. I care how you have been.”

In that moment, he saw it — a shadowy alcove that was hidden from the main pathways of the gardens. Using his body, he pressed Nori back into the darkest corner, his chest crushing against her tender breasts, his lips falling to hers in a desperate kiss. Her arms twined up around his neck, and she rose on her tiptoes to press toward him, deepening the kiss and caressing her own tongue against his. Slipping his hands over her curves, he crushed her buttocks in his hands, driving his hard shaft against her belly and moaning softly at the shiver of pleasure that raced through him with the pressure.

“By the Maker,” he whispered when he lifted his mouth from hers, “I don’t know how you managed to get here or why it happened. All I can think of is how much I want you. Will you come to me? Tonight? To my rooms?”

Almost as if he didn’t want to hear her rejection, he kissed her again and slid one hand up to take the fullness of her breast into his fingers. Stroking across the crest, he felt her nipple harden, and he pinched the raised flesh between his thumb and finger, sucking her whispery gasp into his lungs and deeper — down into his soul. He moaned softly and finally lifted his mouth from hers, trailing his lips across the curve of her cheek and over to her ear. Tracing the tip of his tongue around the rim, he sighed and dropped his cheek against the column of her neck.

“How is it possible?” he whispered, his hands desperately kneading, buttock and breast, his mind lost in the desire that burned inside him like an unquenchable fire. A fire that hadn’t died in the years since they had last coupled in the darkness of his tent outside of Redcliffe. He marveled at the thought — that this woman had touched him so deeply that he was uncertain that his body would ever tire of touching and tasting her. “How can I still want you so, after so many years?”

He could feel her shake her head, but she didn’t respond, almost as if it was beyond her ability to understand it, too. Swallowing hard, once again risking rejection, he whispered, “Come to me tonight. Please?”

Silence stretched between them, and Cullen could feel himself holding his breath. He released it finally when she answered his plea.

“Yes. I’ll come. After midnight bells.”


	11. Shadows and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora finds her way to Cullen's chambers in Halamshiral where she also finds healing.

“Are you certain this is the only way?” Anora asked her elven protector who was extending a strange set of clothing toward her.

“Unless you want to climb on the trellises and balconies,” Mi’Nehn returned, lifting one eyebrow at her, “this is the most reasonable option. If you are determined to be with the commander tonight.”

Anora considered the question: after all, it was a slightly insane idea for her to sneak into Cullen’s bedchamber here in Halamshiral. It had taken all of her persuasive skills to convince Alistair that she should be secretly included in the delegation from Ferelden, because they needed someone to keep an eye on how Teagan handled his part in the negotiations. Neither one of them had been sure of how he would react once he was here, once he had the entire power of the Ferelden throne behind his words and actions. After the problems with the mages in Redcliffe, they couldn’t be certain what kind of revenge he might take on the Inquisition.

So far, she hadn’t needed to reveal herself or intervene in any way, and she was hoping that things would stay that way. There were too many complications that would be created if anyone found out that the queen of Ferelden had come to the negotiations. Best if things stayed just the way they were.

But the simplicity of the question bothered her just as much. Did she want to be with Cullen tonight? Hadn’t she spent the years since her miscarriage simply getting used to the idea that she and Alistair would be childless — and that Ferelden would either find its own way to resolve the problem or sink into a civil war? Through the months of despair, she had managed to find her own sense of renewed hope that her kingdom could emerge after their deaths on its own, without all the risks that she took on Ferelden’s behalf.

For quite a while after the miscarriage, she hadn’t wanted to risk anything. All Anora had wanted to do was retreat behind her icy facade and protect her heart from the lies that she had allowed hope to plant in her heart. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t been the easiest person to live with in those weeks. At least in private. Her public face had been the same one she had always worn — gracious and decisive, kind and determined — but she had never really known whether the people of Ferelden had appreciated her reserved sorrow. Perhaps they would have wanted a deeper show of grief, their queen lost in the pain of her own loss, howling with despair until she was consigned to the care of the menders of the Chantry. But, no: her decision had been the right one. A young lady couldn’t become unhinged, no matter how great the weight of the emotional burden she carried. And a queen never gave anyone a reason to doubt her ability to rule. Ever.

Alistair had been the one to rescue her from the icy darkness that had nearly swallowed her. When they had stood together before the noble houses, there had seemed to be a new intent in his listening, a grasping of details that she might have failed to articulate and a sharp attentiveness to her physical limits. In their private moments — which had increased in number after he abandoned his almost nightly trips into the taverns of Denerim — he had teased her and flirted with her, smiling at her with the goofy, self-deprecation she remembered from when they had first met. Through her explosions of anger and her night-black bouts of grief, he had been there. He had been unwilling to allow her to fall alone, and she was certain that if she had lost the battle, he would have followed her into her insanity. If only so that she wouldn’t bear the pain all by herself.

In some ways, it made her even more determined to take this chance to ensure the future for the kingdom. After all of the caring that her husband had showered on her, she needed to give him a moment of peace and hope. The tiny light that Alistair had fanned, unwilling to allow the darkness to swallow her, needed to be celebrated and fueled with something else. More hope. More joy. More love.

Not that she would say that she loved Cullen: because of her upbringing and past relationships, she couldn’t say that she truly loved anyone. Except maybe the idea of a united, independent Ferelden. It was an idea that she could sacrifice almost anything for, do nearly any deed. Honestly, it was her life’s work, and she must succeed.

Extending a hand, she took the clothing that her protector was holding out to her and moved toward the bed to slip out of her dress. Mi’Nehn followed her, accepting the garments that Anora removed and folding them neatly. When she had gotten down to her breast binding and underpants, the queen stopped and looked over at the elf, an unspoken question on her face.

“Unnecessary, your majesty,” Mi’Nehn said, nodding toward her undergarments. “And less to remember when you return to our chamber.”

Sighing, Anora stripped down to the bare essentials of her being and stepped into the trousers, slipping them over her hips. With the elf’s help, she managed to work the catches and laces until she had the shirt and pants in the right places. As a finishing touch, Mi’Nehn held out a heavy, woolen coat and a leather hat with a floppy brim. Slipping into the sleeves of the jacket, Anora noticed that it would completely cover her curves, and the hat would hide the distinctive color of her hair. Pulling it low on her brow, she looked at the elf for her approval.

Mi’Nehn nodded. “Don’t forget your mask, your majesty,” she reminded Anora, moving toward the door. “Stay close to me. I will get you there safely.”

Taking in a deep breath, Anora slipped her mask into place and then drew on the gloves that would cover the pale delicacy of her fingers. She allowed the elf to step out into the hallway, and when her protector indicated that it was safe, she followed, gripping her hope around her as tightly as she held her borrowed coat against her body.

She clung to Mi’Nehn, avoiding the glances of the guards who patrolled the hallways and the courtiers who were stumbling to their own beds — or the beds of their lovers. At one juncture of halls, the elf pulled Anora against her, muttering to the women passing in the other direction that she needed to get “his lordship” to his bed before his wife asked for him. One of the masked ladies tittered and stared harder at the two of them, but Anora flung an arm around Mi’Nehn’s neck and turned her own back on the women as if she meant to return the way that they had come. The elf pretended to struggle to redirect her, and they ended up spinning in a lazy circle, always keeping the queen’s masked face away from the curious stares of the passing ladies.

Finally, they reached the commander’s door, and Mi’Nehn rapped softly on it. When Anora heard the latch lift, she pressed closer to the opening, feeling the elf gather the fabric of her coat in her fingers. When it was just wide enough, she slipped through and out of the jacket, leaving it and her hat behind for her protector to have waiting when she was ready to return to their room. But that was for later. For now, there was only Cullen.

“Nori,” he moaned, pulling her into the room and into his arms. Using her body to press the door closed, he kissed her, his lips tender and questioning, pressing against her mouth with a gentle, restrained passion. Anora wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him tightly against her and waited. She could feel herself longing for the fire that had burned between them to flare to life inside of her. As in the past, his mouth was warm and pleading, begging for her to open to him, to let their tongues dance together, and his hands were tenderly curious, exploring her curves with the same enthusiastic passion that they had shared in the past.

But today, the fire didn’t flash to life, and she wondered once again whether this idea had been a good one. Pulling her lips away from Cullen’s, she dropped her cheek against his shoulder and drew in a deep breath.

Cullen’s hand came up to cup the base of her skull. “I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean to force you before you were ready. But I had thought …”

Anora shook her head against him, replying, “It isn’t you. Being so intimate with the queen’s suffering has made me reluctant with the act of coupling. I understand if you weren’t expecting this … this reaction and would prefer for me to return to my rooms.”

Cullen chuckled. “Of course not,” he whispered, stepping away from their tight embrace. “I should have been more sensitive to the time that’s elapsed between our encounters. And to you, my dear.” Looking at her, meeting her eyes that were shadowed by her mask, he raised her hand to his lips and turned it so that he could place a kiss into her palm and then higher, against the pulse that throbbed in her wrist. “I assume you have spent your life serving others. Would you allow me to serve you here?”

Frowning slightly, Anora considered his questioning face and nodded. Cullen took her hand and led her to a chair beside his bed, where he urged her to sit. Kneeling before her, he unlaced one of her sturdy boots, his strong fingers pressing into the arch of her foot when it was free of the leather and tugging at her toes. Her eyes slid closed as the aches in her feet eased, and she felt Cullen remove her other boot and begin to work on her second set of toes.

After a few moments of this gentle massage, Cullen slid one of his hands up her calf, under the fabric of her trouser leg, until his fingers found the top of her stocking. Slowly, his hand caressing each inch of her skin as it was revealed, he stripped the woolen sock from her leg. He did the same with her other one, his fingertips lingering on the soft skin of her calf and reaching tentatively even higher so that he could touch — like a momentary secret that they shared — the softer flesh of her thigh. Without thinking of it, she sighed and slid her bottom farther forward on the chair so that she could slouch easily against the padded cushioning. She could feel the closure of her mask catch against the top of the chair, but it stayed in place across her face, so she ignored the sensation.

“Would it be all right with you if I removed your clothing, Nori?” Cullen whispered. Not wanting to disrupt the comforting cocoon that she felt weaving its way around her, the kindling of a gentle warmth that was only beginning to stir within her body, Anora nodded and moved to rise to her feet. He placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her from standing and continued in his soft voice, “Don’t move. I’ll handle this. Just be still.”

Still. Anora wondered silently whether she had actually ever known the meaning of the word, especially after she had married Cailan. Still …

Sighing deeply, she let herself release … something. Something that had been keeping her separate from the people around her, especially her husband. There was nothing that he had done, and he had certainly worked to help her find her way back from her grief. Maybe that was what she needed to truly understand: they were each doing his or her best in terrible, unforeseeable circumstances. Maybe that was her hope.

Her eyes slid closed, and she waited, silent and patient, while Cullen shifted in front of her. Instead of moving to strip her of her borrowed trousers as she had expected, he lifted one of her hands and dragged the glove off, afterwards trailing kisses over her fingertips and across the palm. When he had reached the wrist on that arm, he shifted again and caressed her other hand in the same way, but he didn’t stop there. Instead, he slid the sleeve of her shirt up past the elbow, following the pale, blue lines that decorated her arm until he buried his lips into the bend of her elbow. She shivered unexpectedly, feeling a whispering thrill race through her. Had anyone ever kissed her … just there … just in that manner? Suddenly, she desperately wished that he would do it again, just so that she could try to understand why it affected her so.

Instead, he slid the sleeve back over her forearm and tugged the neckline so that her shoulder was exposed to his exploring mouth. She shrugged slightly, allowing the fabric to slip a little farther, opening just a bit more of her body to his mouth, which traveled ever so delicately over her skin. The cloth resisted her attempts to move it, however, and she gave up, trusting Cullen to do as he wished, moving her clothing to satisfy his own need to know her skin and how she would react to his touches.

Every place that his lips brushed seemed to tingle, and wave after wave of pleasurable sensation raced through her. Anora focused on the warmth that gathered, becoming a lingering heat that pulsed with her heartbeat while Cullen continued his exploration of her body. His hands went to the waistband of her trousers, pulling the tails of her shirt from the bindings and stripping it over her head. His hands skimmed across her back, supporting her when she arched toward him, his lips brushing across her belly and upward to the curves of her breasts. Avoiding the delicate crests, he lingered on the skin that covered her ribs, his mouth and fingers following each other like a group of children playing tag.

She felt each kiss and touch like a new ember added to the fire that was building inside of her. Without conscious thought, her hips began to rise up from the chair, pressing forward into the portions of Cullen’s torso that were leaning close to her. He murmured against her chest, but she couldn’t recognize any words. Her hands reached out to him, her fingers slipping around the back of his head and lacing up into his short-cropped hair. The silky softness of the curls at the nape of his neck were a delightful contrast to the scrape of his whiskers against her breasts, and she found herself pressing toward his chin and mouth when they touched her.

Cullen trailed his lips down and traced his tongue around the circle of her belly button. Then he leaned back and studied her in the light from the candles that were still burning at his bedside. One hand reached up to cup her breast, and his thumb stroked back and forth across the nipple until it tightened.

“You did these a disservice, you know,” he murmured, his lips grazing her belly while his empty hand came up to cup her other breast. “You said that these were ‘pink’ once. But they aren’t. They’re the palest rose, like new blossoms that have just started budding in the spring. Your entire body is like that — fresh and delicate. Soft as the mists in the morning. You refresh my soul, Nori.”

She would have answered, but he chose that moment to close his fingers around both of her nipples at the same time. Gasping desperately, she arched up from the chair, encouraging him wordlessly to repeat his caress. Instead, he shifted closer so that he could take one of her now-tight nipples into his mouth and suck it, gently at first, and then more demandingly. Her hands tightened on his skull, clutching him in place so that the delicious suckling would continue. The fire that had smoldered within her burst into flaming light, and she gasped aloud at the flaring of her desire, so long absent, so long lost to her despair and pain. Her delight at her rediscovery of her passion let her finally release her control, and she sobbed aloud with her pleasure.

Cullen purred against her breast and kissed across her chest to the other nipple, and the pressure that he used on that side was not nearly as gentle as when he had started. While his lips were occupied, his fingers worked the catches of her trousers, his fingers probing her back and hips until he was able to wrap his hands around the flesh of her buttocks. This time, when she strained up against him, he supported her weight, lifting her, sliding closer to her so that he could press more of his own body against hers. His suckling became more demanding, and Anora slipped her arms around his head, holding him to her.

When he finally released her nipple, he slid her onto his shoulder, rising to his feet so that her loosened trousers could fall down to the floor with a simple shifting of her weight. Walking to the bed, he lowered her among the pillows, taking a moment to stare down at her.

“You are so beautiful, Nori,” he said. Opening her eyes, she watched as he tugged desperately at the bindings of his clothing, discarding them randomly while he examined every visible inch of her. When he was finally naked, he moved to join her on the bed, reaching up to the mask that still hid her face. “May I …?” Her hands flew up to the mask, desperately to keep her identity a secret. “I see not,” he sighed. “But I am certainly satisfied with the opportunity to finally see the blushing rose of your body. I hadn’t imagined that your skin could be so delicately colored. The softness of it against me had been enough. Until now.”

“Why is that?” she gasped as his naked body stretched across the linens against her own. His skin was lightly golden, probably from hours training, except in the areas that never saw sunlight. Reaching out, Anora let her fingertips travel across the angle of his hip, following the line where his tanned skin met the untanned. She saw his eyes close, and he moved closer, levering himself up onto one knee and elbow so that he could hover above her.

“When I have dreamed of you over the years,” he explained, his lips beginning a new journey of exploration across her skin, “and I will honestly admit that I have dreamed of you more times that is probably good for my mental health, I have never clearly seen you. I have heard you whispering to me in your husky, passion-filled voice, and I have felt you touch me. In so many, many places. But now, I will dream images of you that I have captured forever in my mind.” He stroked his fingertips across the places that he mentioned and then kissed after his hands. “The rose of your lips.” He kissed her briefly and then again, as if he couldn’t bear to leave her with only that one caress. “The blush of your skin. The perfect peaks of your breasts. They will all haunt my dreams until I am too old to dream any more.”

Anora angled so that she could capture his lips with her own, her passion as fired by his words as by the continuing caresses he traced across her body. Their tongues met — for the first time in the entire night — and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. All that she wanted was to be closer to him, to touch every inch of him, and to find herself in their intimacy.

They moved together, reaching and striving, words lost in their passion and the need to kiss and stroke each other. Cullen’s lips settled on her breasts again, kissing them until she nearly begged him to take her into his mouth, to suck her nipples until she was mindless with her longing for him to enter her and claim her. In her own way, she wanted to encourage him, so while he focused on her breasts, she took him in her hands, stroking the hard length of his shaft until he reflexively thrust against her fingers. He released her nipple and levered up to take her mouth in his own again, his hand moving between her thighs, lingering just above the point that could drive her fire to burn more brightly and then moving deeper, so that he could touch the delicate skin of her nether lips. She moaned at the tenderness she could feel in his touch, and she let her legs slide farther apart, opening the center of her desire to his probing.

She could almost imagine that he was a bee, gathering the nectar of her passion to him with hesitant, gentle touches. But, unlike a flower, she could move of her own volition, and she arched her hips up toward his hand. His fingers slipped between those lips and stopped at her opening, patiently looping back and forth as if he was trying to collect as much of the signs of her arousal as he could. Lingering there, he traced the opening until the moment that he slipped inside, inching forward while his mouth sought its own contacts. Anora couldn’t hold her body still, and she writhed toward him, her hands gripping him more tightly, her mouth seeking its own pleasures in touching and licking the hard muscles that trembled under her touch. She could hear Cullen groan above her, and she felt her burning passion flare more brightly. In response, she wrapped her hands around his buttocks and pulled him more tightly against her, opening her legs so that she could encompass his waist with them.

“Ah,” Cullen whispered, his mouth hovering just above hers. “At last, you invite me in.”

“Yes,” she moaned in response. “Take me, Cullen. I cannot wait a moment longer.”

By shifting his hips, he was able to guide his shaft to her opening with the hand that lingered between her nether lips, and two sharp thrusts sheathed him deeply inside her warmth. Anora rose each time to meet his motion, wanting him there so desperately, wanting the crescendo of sensation that she knew waited just out of reach. Together, they would get there.

So she moved with him, rising up with his motion, driving her hips against his as the sensations built. Every groan and gasp that escaped Cullen’t lips fueled her own passion, and they found each other’s rhythm, rising and falling together, their bodies seeking each other. Her pulse quickened with their motion, and Anora reached a point where she couldn’t restrain the thrusting of her hips, the gasping sighs that spilled from her lips. The fire burned more brightly until the moment when she exploded into pieces of herself that shimmered and throbbed throughout her body, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. Cullen groaned above her, and she could feel him thrust forward and then still, and Anora knew that he was allowing his own pleasure to course through him.

He allowed his arms to fold and his body weight settled on top of her, his breath gasping against her throat. Her own sighs filled the room, and she listened to the sounds echo around her for a moment, inhaling deeply and enjoying the lingering tingling that shivered through her again and again.

“Thank you,” Cullen finally sighed and then rolled to his side on the bed. He drew her close to him, his lips lingering against her temple.

She giggled softly and cuddled more tightly to him. “For what?”

“For being you. Here with me.” He moved so that he could nuzzle her throat.

Anora sighed and turned toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck and throwing one of her legs across his hips. She could hear him growl deep in his throat, and she laughed softly. “Thank you, Cullen,” she whispered in turn. “I … I am so happy that we have shared this gift with each other.”

“Gift?” he said. “My dear, it is more than that. It is a treasure that men seek their entire lifetimes.”

“Even if only for a moment?” she asked, afraid that he might want more from her than she was able to provide.

But he nodded. “Even then. I know you’re committed to the queen, Nori. I’ve always known that and understood that there would continue to be too much that stood between us. But I still thank the Maker that you have shared your caring and passion with me. It …” He paused, turning his head away from her and swallowing hard. “From the way that my life has turned out, it’s probably more than I ever deserved.”

She knew it wasn’t true: she knew that he deserved only the best of his future for the way that he had made her feel and the restoration she could feel stirring in her soul. Instead of telling him, she moved to touch him and kiss him, using her body to express her gratitude to him. He let her touch him as she would, stroke her fingers and lips over him, pulling her on top of him when he was ready to join with her. Guiding him into her warmth, she writhed atop him, finding her rhythm and bringing him with her so that they groaned their satisfaction together.

Slipping beside him, she pillowed her head on his shoulder and let him drag her tightly against him. And she hoped that he knew how truly grateful she was for him.


	12. Epilogue • The End is the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora and Cullen both move on ...

Anora stared down at the fuzzy little head of the infant who suckled lazily at her breast, one tiny hand opening and closing on her soft flesh. A sense of the … rightness … of the moment settled around her, and she nearly lifted her hand to trace a fingertip around the circle of the baby’s ear. But then she stopped herself. The child was nearly asleep. Better to leave her hand where it was.

It hadn’t been a difficult decision for her to refuse to allow her child to be suckled by another woman. When Hana had suggested the idea, she had mentally recoiled in horror, and something inside of her had known that she wanted every available moment to spend with her child in these first, blossoming moments of existence. In the end, her life’s schedule had changed so that she could be where she was truly needed, and Anora had found herself releasing her stranglehold on the governance of Ferelden. They had a king, after all: her child had only one mother.

Not that she had abandoned her responsibilities to the kingdom completely; she had simply loosened her grip, allowing Alistair to make more decisions and meet more dignitaries on his own. He still consulted with her regularly, of course, and she wouldn’t or couldn’t let go of every single one of her duties as queen. But they didn’t drive her daily life now. She was there for Ferelden when Ferelden needed her.

And there for her child when her child needed her.

The busy little mouth slowed for a moment and seemed to loosen until suddenly, in a flurry of activity, the baby fed frantically, as if never satisfied. Anora sighed. She had been hoping that the child was asleep for good.

That hope was shattered when the door to her sitting room was flung open and Alistair came bounding into the room. His eyes found the two of them sitting in the half-light from the drawn curtains, and he rushed across the floor to her side.

“How are my two favorite people in all of Ferelden?” he called enthusiastically, and Anora saw the baby’s eyes open at the sound of that familiar voice. Sighing inwardly, she looked up into the eager face of her husband.

“We were about to take a nap,” she scolded him in a soft voice. “But then our papa showed up, and we’re all smiles now.”

It was true. Looking down, she met the brilliantly blue eyes of the baby and noticed the smile that was dimpling the chubby cheeks. The infant lifted one hand toward Alistair, and the king extended a finger so that it could be wrapped inside his child’s grip. Twinkling brightly, the baby’s eyes focused tightly on the king’s face, and Anora could feel a little thrill dash through her. It was almost as if she could see the connections being made between the child and the father and the mother right before her eyes, connections that would carry them all into a future that they would face together.

Eventually, the business of suckling reclaimed the infant’s attention, and that little hand fell back into place against her breast. Alistair leaned over and kissed her lips gently, and she responded immediately, bringing a free hand to press against his cheek and letting it linger there. When he pulled away from her, she smiled up at him, feeling that sense of rightness blossom, showered with the peace and hope that she finally knew wasn’t simply a moment’s fancy.

The king grinned down at her, his hand moving to cup her cheek and one thumb caressing the full curve of her lower lip. Trembling tingles started deep inside of her, and she drew in a sharp, gasping breath.

“I hadn’t imagined before now that you could be more beautiful, Anora,” Alistair whispered against her hair when he leaned closer to nibble at the curve of her ear. “How have you accomplished it? Would you share your secret with me?”

Anora swallowed and looked up at him through her lashes, wondering what he had meant by his question. “What secret would that be, your majesty?”

He grinned and glanced down at the child in her arms. “How did you bring us all back to life, Anora? I had thought that I would lose you to your despair, but you found your way out. Back to us.”

“Back to you, Alistair,” she whispered. “Because I achieved something that I knew would help you, too. And that gave me … hope.”

He grinned back at her. “Whatever it took, my dear.”

Anora smiled softly and looked down at the infant in her arms. Silently, to herself, she vowed that Alistair would never know what it had taken to make her feel this hopeful and peaceful. But it had been worth it.

And she would do it again in a heartbeat, for the sake of the kingdom.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Cullen stared out across the hills that surrounded Honnleath and sighed. It had taken him months to finally make his way home: something had always seemed to call him in another direction, and he had usually listened. First, there had been all the details of the Inquisition, which he had handled with his usual military precision and then there had been a variety of invitations from the people that he had gotten to know over the last three years. Not that he had lingered at any of those places — there really wasn’t any reason for him to be there for more than a day or two — but after a few days of reminiscing, there hadn’t been much more for him to say or do.

And so, here he was, riding slowly back toward his family home, feeling a strange reluctance to actually arrive there. He hadn’t been there since he had left for Chantry service, and even though it was where he had been raised, he wasn’t certain that he could call it home any more. Wondering why he was still going there, he reined his horse to a stop and climbed out of the saddle.

The Mabari that had adopted him at Halamshiral loped up to his side, stopping briefly to touch noses with the horse. The two animals had become fast friends during their travels, sleeping together in the stables when he managed to secure a room at an inn or romping eagerly in the fields when Cullen was able to allow the horse space to run free. Kneeling in the dirt of the king's highway he was following, he rubbed the hound’s ears for a long moment, looking down the road.

“We’re almost there,” he said to the Mabari, absentmindedly pulling at her ears. “You’re going to have to behave yourself when we get home, you know. Mother probably won’t appreciate that I’ve brought a war hound home with me.”

The Mabari huffed and bumped her head against his hand; then she raced down the road and back, skidding to a stop in front of him and wagging her tail so hard that her entire body shook from side to side. Cullen laughed and rose to his feet, moving closer to his horse to check the tightness of the girth strap. Tugging the leather, he looked toward the valley where the village of Honnleath was waiting for him to return home. In the next moment, he glanced over his shoulder at the road that led back into Ferelden, back into the world and all its upsets and dangers.

“I suppose there’s really nothing there for me,” he mused, studying the horizon in the direction he was leaving. He glanced down at the dog and said, “I mean, it’s not like I was welcomed into the company of the queen or anything.”

The Mabari snorted and shook her head vigorously. Cullen wondered silently what the hound meant by that motion, because after nearly a year of travel with the dog, he truly understood that the breed was much too intelligent for their own good. Sighing, he scratched her ears and considered asking the hound what she was saying, but maybe he didn’t truly want to know the answer. Instead, he swung back into the saddle and nudged the horse into motion.

“Come along, madam,” he called to the Mabari. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
